


A Light From Miles Away

by stillmadaboutpetra



Series: Stars are a light [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, First Kiss, Found Family, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Love Confessions, Magical Artifacts, Mention of past terminal illness, POV Multiple, Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Friendship, Penelope Bunce is a Good Friend, Penelope and Baz are huge nerds, Pensilton, Pining, Plot Driven as hell, Plotty, Reunions, Self-Worth Issues, Simon and Shepard are bros, Slow Burn, Soul-Searching, Temporary Character Death, The Sword of Mages is a plot device, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Loves Simon Snow, simpard, the friendship is heavy in this story yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 67,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28081077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: On June 3rd, at the end of their seventh year, the Humdrum pulls Simon and Penelope to Lancashire. There, Simon destroys it at the cost of his own life.On June 6th, Simon Snow appears out of a portal on the bedroom of a home in Lake Charles, Louisiana.The World of Mages think he's dead. Except for Penelope. And Baz.Simon isn't sure him not being dead is the best thing. Shepard says he needs to chill.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Shepard & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Stars are a light [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2145429
Comments: 364
Kudos: 210





	1. I'm Brilliant

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of notes:  
> this is my first simon snow fic. I read the books a few weeks ago and liked them. this idea came to me and i want to release it from my brain and be free.  
> -the inclusion of shepard should indicate that this contains elements from Wayward Son  
> -Simon is presumed dead for a lot of this. theres some grief stuff.  
> -there are two timelines happening in this fic. They slowly converge.  
> -this fic is incredibly plot heavy and the SLOWEST burn. Rip.  
> -character opinions are character opinions. nothing in this fic is outside of the boundaries of co/ws. This includes their shit mental health.  
> -there r direct and blase mentions of childhood cancer. this is a v sensitive subject for me and im definitely using this to deal with something however sparringly im able.  
> -I'm American so RIP to britishisms.

* * *

**Penelope**

Simon says I'm brilliant.

He tells me nearly everyday. I don't think he knows what I'm saying most of the time, doesn't matter the subject. But he listens in his own way. Sometimes he'll stop chewing while I go off (my own kind of going off) - I’ve just discovered a prosaic link between a Milton spell and a poetic justice note in Blake's theological incantations and I've colour coordinated my sticky notes - and - "Penny, you're dead brilliant. You know that?"

"Yes." Because I do know.

He's shaking his head, starting to smile in that soft impossible way of his. Simon isn't perfect. Merlin, I know that better than anyone. But he's good. I know that better than anyone too.

"Yeah but," he smiles a little more, almost sly, like he's about to get one over on me, "bet you don't you're cute when you're being brilliant. Penelope Bunce, the Brilliant One."

He doesn't mean it how some people might think it sounds. He doesn't mean cute like he wants to kiss me. He means cute the same way I sometimes tell him he's cute- when he's pinched over Beowulf asking me when the sword fights I promised will come in. Cute. The way Pacey is cute even when he's acting like a nihilist. Cute, the way you love someone through their less glamorous moments. When you love them because of those moments.

It's....I love him. He’s lovely. But he's a moron because Agatha doesn't get it and sometimes it’s painful to be between them.

God. Simon....

"Isn't she, Ags?" Simon turns to her to really drive it home. "In her best element right now she is."

Agatha breathes out, eyes wide and tense and she blinks very very slowly.

"Penny is brilliant," she agrees. She's got a textbook out to the side of her tea, reviewing. Simon's supposed to be cramming. I'm perfectly at ease. Any minute now, Baz will brush by to raise Simon's hackles - he might have hackles, literally, and not just metaphorically because he raises hackles so much they've probably grown - and it'll all be... lovely. And normal.

And Simon will smile his imperfect good smile and we'll all carry on as we've been doing for seven years.

Simon says I'm brilliant.

I don't feel brilliant now. I feel useless. I feel small and scared and useless. I don't think I've ever felt that way, not with Simon beside me. He makes you feel limitless; he is impossible and so everything becomes possible. And now, the impossible is happening. Maybe it was only a matter of time.

The Humdrum pulled us here; it shouldn't be able to do that. No one should be able to do that. Magical Displacement Theory doesn't allow for living matter to teleport such distances (Lancashire!) and especially not without established thresholds and stabilizing ports.

“Penny! Penny, are you okay?” Simon gets to his feet first, the Sword of Mages already in his hand. He uses it like a walking stick, heaving himself up, grabbing me under the arm. “Pen?”

He’s looking at me, but I’m looking past him.

There’s a little boy standing before me, a little boy I met seven years ago. He’s thin, and the thinness goes all the way through him, like even his skeleton is hungry. He smiles, and behind it is an emptiness like he’s the place where all the things we miss go. There’s a little boy bouncing a red ball and smiling and he’s my best friend in the whole world.

The dead spot comes down around us like a second gravity. Or a reversing. The sudden nothing where my magic dwells tugs sharply at my skin. Mages are their magic; it pulls me apart when it leaves. Simon feels it too; we groan with the leaving; it leaves, and the blood comes. Blood springs to the surface of our skin like a thousand needles have pricked us, instant, sharp; the nothing vibrates like a note running out in the air.

Simon snarls, his bloody grimace like a demon. He’s terrifying. “Why do you have my face?”

“I didn’t think I could do that!” Little Simon answers. No. The Insidious Humdrum. He passes the ball back and forth between his hands. Simon’s ball. The only thing he brought with him to Watford his first year.

“Answer me!” Simon levels his sword at the Humdrum, standing between me and it. Him.

My chest is tight. I don’t know if it’s the dead spot and the wrongness of it, or if all the blood slicked over me is still coming, if I'm going to dry up like a raisin; if the teleportation ripped me apart and I’ve come back together wrong. But I hurt. I hurt and I have no magic and Simon’s crying, streaking the blood on his face. He runs like paint in the rain, a mistake washing away.

I guess I’m crying too; I never cried before, not when it was life or death. But the blood is in my eyes. That must be why I’m crying. It burns. Merlin and Morgana, I hurt. It feels like hunger. Hunger so bad I’m curling over with it, like I’m chewed up on the inside.

“I want a sword,” the Humdrum says, ignoring Simon. He passes the ball back and forth one more time before holding it up to Simon with a squint and a smile. “Hey, trade me. You got all the good stuff.”

Simon’s sword point wavers.

“Why do you have my face,” Simon repeats, harder this time. Not yelling. It’s a teacher’s voice. It’s the voice of an adult.

The Humdrum holds the ball higher. “What, haven’t figured it out? I am you.”

“Simon.” I’m right beside him. I pull on his arm. “Simon, we have to run.”

“What do you mean, you’re me?”

“Should have given you a book instead of a sword.” The Humdrum tosses the ball high and catches it. “Look at me.”

“Tell me what you are,” Simon demands.

The little boy snarls back, all teeth, bottom row crooked just like Simon's were before he fell down the steps and had his teeth and jaw spelled straight. “I’m what you leave behind! You’re the taking and I’m the missing. You’re the fire and I’m the ash. You’re Everything, and I’m Nothing.”

The smoke smell comes. Simon’s magic. He shouldn’t have it, but he is always the impossible happening. He takes a step back, swordpoint dropping to the ground. He knocks into me, startling to feel my weight. He throws an arm out and back, turning to grab me, to run; he’s terrified. He’s crying, and I don’t think it’s from the hurt. “Pen- Penny!”

He takes my hand, pouring over with magic, and he _burns_ me.

His magic snaps into me like lightning, burning my hand from the inside out, racing up my arm. I scream and he lets go, but the skin’s already blistered and bubbled and _ithurtsithurts._

“Wow” the Humdrum says above my screaming and Simon’s crying, “that’s a good trick. Do me next.”

Simon’s panting through his mouth, standing over me like a tower coming down, crooked and crumbling.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“I know. I know. It - it hurts.” I try to be strong. I’ve always felt strong beside Simon. Simon’s magic pours off of him, and at least there’s that, the drunken atmosphere of it numbing my pain. Fuzzing the edges. He turns back to the Humdrum, whole body heaving with his breath.

He takes the Humdrum’s offered hand.

“You want this?”

“Yeah! Gimme!”

“Take it!”

“Simon! Don’t.”

But it’s already happening. Simon’s aglow, and I can see his magic. It swells with light; it takes the light. The overcast sky grows darker. I don’t know if he’s taking the light from the world or if the smoked edge of my vision is shrinking to a narrow passage. But I know what’s happening and I can’t stop it.

The Humdrum hangs onto Simon and he to it. It is him. Simon pours and it drinks. And the world gets a little bleaker for it. Simon still has the Sword of Mages in his other hand and I yell “Hit him!” and “Kill him!” and “Simon!” and “Simon!” and “Simon!”

The vanishing starts on the Humdrum. It starts at his shoes; raggedy trainers with floppy soles come apart, worn thin and a size too big. They grow translucent, first in colour and then the edges and then his legs; his body. His face, Simon’s scrappy angry smiling little boy face.

“Wicked,” the Humdrum says with a mouth that I can see through. The vanishing travels all the way through to his hand.  
“Simon! Let go!”

But it’s already in Simon’s fingers. The glow of him, the Magic of him, the body of him; he’s vanishing too.

He looks at me, bloody, even his teeth are bloody. I can see through him. He’s the fullest brightest most whole thing in my life, and I can see through to the other side.

“Penny. **Get home safe.”**

He disappears, and so do I.

A pulse of magic lights up in the heart of every mage; it snuffs out in the next breath. As quick as a bite of winter static shock. They swallow the taste of wood ash and think it an odd moment. Most think it an odd moment.

For some, it is _the_ moment. They just don’t know it yet.

When I open my eyes, I’m on the floor of my kitchen at home, already screaming; I think when I teleported, I was screaming. However it works, I’ve left a scream behind. It might still be traveling, an echo all the way from Lancashire. All the way from where Simon Snow burned himself and the Humdrum out of the world. I know that’s what happened.

I’ve never thought I’d be the screaming type - that’s always been Agatha. No wonder she’s so tired. I’m still soaked in blood, pus now too, not just from my blistered up hand but from all over; my skin’s tight and painful and weeping. It doesn't fit around me anymore.

“Penelope!” Dad’s still home. He hasn’t left for work yet; he barrels into the kitchen and into me, stopping just before he collides into me. “Penelope.”

“Dad. Dad.” I’m supposed to be brilliant. “Dad. The Humdrum. Simon - he - we - he killed it.”

Dad doesn’t care. He should care; he always cares about the Humdrum, it’s his job. “Penelope, you’re hurt. Honey.” He doesn’t get it.

“Simon’s dead.”

I don’t think it through before saying it, and now it’s out there in the world. I want to take it back; words have power. Words have magic. I’ve just spat something into the world that should never be, given that smallest bit of life into utterance. Simon’s dead.

No. That’s not right. That can’t be right.

Dad finally stops trying to talk or touch me. He looks at me; whole, alive. Terrified.

“Penelope,” he says one more time, hands hovering over me, scared to touch. I hug him to spare him. I hug him and it hurts and he holds me through the pain. Deliriously, I think, _this too shall pass._

I’m right. I’m wrong. I don’t want to know what comes next.


	2. My wife

* * *

**Martin**

I call my wife. Penelope’s passed out on me; I don’t think of myself as a strong man, but I’m her father. I don’t need **Up, Up, and Away** to carry my daughter to bed. I spell her hand better and spell the blood away and call my wife. I don’t take my eyes off Penelope. I won't again.

“Mitali. Come home now.”

I let Mitali see Penelope before I explain. I don’t know much, but I tell Mitali the jist: Penelope dropped out of thin air onto the kitchen floor, burned, bloody, crying. She said Simon Snow was dead. She said the Humdrum was dead.

“Was that what that was?” Mitali asks. She sits on the edge of Penelope’s bed, a hand over our daughter’s hand, over the purple ring. “I lit up. And then it went out.”

She remembers when Simon came into power. The greatness of a moment they hadn’t known was a great moment until The Mage announced it at a Coven meeting. Does he know? Does he know his heir died?

“You felt that too?” The surge in my chest had burst like a soap bubble through me. The dying of a great mage. The dying of a boy. Of our daughter’s friend. I put a hand over my own heart as if to keep the memory of brightness in my chest. But it’s already been hours. It’s gone. I didn't know it was Simon. I would have held on to it.

Mitali sobs just as sudden as that spark had been. It startles her; she claps a hand over her mouth and looks from our daughter’s sleeping face to me in shock. I sit beside her quickly; my wife does not cry. But then again, I haven't seen Penelope cry in years. I thought she’d grown out of it. You can’t grow out of crying. You can’t outrun grief.

“That boy,” Mitali says. “Oh, Martin, that boy.”

“He defeated the Humdrum,” I say to comfort her, to put a chip on the other scale. Mitali shakes her head and lays her cheek on my shoulder, her hand still around Penelope’s.

“And now what?”

So much. There’s no time to stop.

Penelope wakes up before noon, confused, panicked. Her confusion stays until it breaks into blankness. I would rather anything else but the blankness on my daughter’s face. She sits up in bed and looks at her empty palms flat on her knees.

“I couldn’t do anything,” she whispers. “I couldn’t do anything to help.”

She starts to cry. I would rather the blankness than her tears.

“There was nothing to do, Penelope.”

“You weren’t there!” she screams, still staring at her hands, now fists, now trembling. “We should have ran. I should have made him run. He listens to me, he’s supposed to listen to me. I’m supposed to keep him safe.”

“Penelope.” I squeeze her hands. She's just a girl. How did we let her take this on her shoulders?

“I couldn’t do anything. He just - he - I couldn’t do anything,” she breaks down, curling into herself. “Simon. Simon.” She chokes off, crying too hard, huffing on a snotty nose and sobbing with great heaving breaths, crying over herself in an avalanche. “He sent me home,” she says brokenly. “He sent me home with the last of himself.”

He’d been a good friend. They shouldn’t have let Penelope get so close to him. He would only break her. I know it's a selfish thought, but I'm her father.

**Baz**

Wellbelove and I watch Snow and Bunce disappear. Snow’s furious face, there and gone.

“Snow?” I call out before I can stop myself. I can’t hear them, can’t smell them. The smoke of Snow’s magic that had been boiling over at the sight of me and his precious girlfriend’s been sucked from the air. It’s like they were never there.

“You saw them too?” Wellbelove asks, stepping around him, peering at the same space as I. “Where did they-”

“Teleportation isn’t possible.” Wellbelove isn’t stupid but I don’t want to entertain that level of nonsense right now, not in addition to her having seen me - she saw me -

She shakes her head. “It’s Simon. You know you can’t count on that.” She should sound wonderrous; Simon Snow, that beautiful impossible nightmare. She only sounds tired. Crowley, they’re the worst couple in the world. She’s right despite it. You never know what’ll happen next if it involves Simon Snow. He makes rules and logic lost causes; it’s terrible; it’s magnificent.

I need to focus. I’ll deal with Snow later. Merlin knows he’ll pop up at the worst moment possible. Maybe he’ll fall into my lap this time. That’d be a nice change of pace.

I shake my head and turn back to Wellbelove, mocking my face into something suitable for the occasion. How does one convince another mage to forget that they’re a blood sucking corpse? I didn’t think I'd have to entertain this particular brain teaser today. If I hadn't been so focused on leading Snow on a wild goose chase through the woods, I would have noticed Wellbelove following me for her own foolish reasons. This is my comeuppance. Well done, Pitch.

“Agatha,” I take a step closer to her and good, she doesn’t step back. Her attention slides from where Snow had been back to me; she bats her eyes up at me; she is lovely in her softness. She’s a thing I could break. I don’t want to touch her. “What you saw-”

“What did I see, Basilton?” Her lips twitch. It’s a game to her.

“You didn’t see anything.”

“Okay.” She smiles and tucks a lock of hair behind her ears. She looks away, into the cresting light of dawn. I’d had to skulk around all bloody night trying to lose Snow and this became that became the four of us all beyond the gates and drawbridge and now the sun’s coming up. What a way to end the year. Sleeplessly. “I didn’t see anything, Basilton.”

I suppress my sigh. “Perfect.” I slouch my hands into my pockets and tip my head towards Watford. Better keep her on my good side. “Walk you back?”

I'm so nervous I could puke. She could kill me with this knowledge. She could tell Snow. She could tell her mother. Mrs. Wellbelove has an unfortunate habit of nosiness.

She sits with Niall, Dev and I at breakfast. It’s far earlier than I usually eat, but it was pointless to attempt any sleep. I’ll just be miserable and tired today. That’s not so different than usual. Now I’ve a proper excuse for being a prickly bastard and it doesn’t have anything to do with watching Snow sleep. It’s been hot the past few nights and Snow’s taken to shirtlessness; the golden lines of his vulnerable body torment me.

Dev’s giving me looks. I ignore him. Snow and Bunce are nowhere to be found. Agatha isn’t talking but she keeps looking at me. Is this it now? She knows I’m a vampire so I’m doomed to a lifetime of her placidity. A lifetime of looks and looking; that’s what I’m reduced to; an exchange of glances. Crowley, there’s only one person I want to play eye-footsie with and he’s who knows where, likely a stupid quest for The Mage.

All at once, everyone in the dining hall jolts in their seats. I cough on a swallow of tea, my chest aflame, my mouth dried. Half of the hall’s in the same state, coughing and choking as the throb shakes us like a pulse of an earthquake or a meteor shower; the end of the world in a heartbeat. There and gone.

I look for Simon. I can taste him in my mouth. I’m out of my seat. Where is he? I felt him. Where is he? I can smell him. Where is he?

I don’t know how long I’ll be thinking that thought: Where is he?  
I don’t know how comforting that thought is: not knowing where he is.  
I don’t know what the unknown potential means in the face of the known: he must be somewhere.

**Agatha**

The Mage’s voice fills up all of Watford. His **"H** **ear me, hear me"** takes over the entire school, clamouring in the old stones of our world. It stops us in our classes. It stops us in our tracks. It stops us dead. .

“Attention,” The Mage announces to us. I'm in Magic Words. I’ve been doodling in the margins of my book, squiggles off the loop of my cursive ‘y’ and into a flower chain. Daisies. Baz hasn’t looked at me once in class. He looks around every once in awhile, but not at me. He’s like a cat getting the zooms. He’s a little odd, but he’s dead gorgeous. He’s also dead, if vampires are dead.

I can’t believe Simon was right. I feel a little bad. I thought he was just acting out all these years, looking for the most ridiculous thing to accuse Baz of to satisfy his own fixation. I don’t know what’s worse: that Simon was right about Baz, or that Baz really is a vampire. It’s probably a logical fallacy, that’s what Penny would say, because they’re the same concept but it’s different in my head. Simon being right (about Baz being a vampire) isn't the same as Baz actually being a vampire.

“Attention, students, teachers. Attention, Mages of Watford-”

“Crowley, he’s dramatic,” Baz snips, low enough that Mrs. Possibelf doesn’t hear. I smile a little.

“-but I must inform you immediately that the Insidious Humdrum has been defeated-”

Everyone jerks. My heart starts racing. Because The Mage’s triumph has a slant on it and I know what’s coming. I always knew what was coming. I’ve been preparing for it for years.

“-through the noble sacrifice of our beloved Simon Snow.”

This is how we find out Simon died. A public service announcement. Magical Words. June 3rd. 12:11pm.

I knew this would happen one day; I’ve been preparing myself. I still cry.

**Baz**

Sometimes, not knowing is better than the truth.

I wish someone would cast **"You can’t handle the truth"** on me to make me forget, but only one person would be strong enough to make me forget this.

And they’re trying to tell me he’s dead.

Don’t they know he’s impossible? You can’t kill the impossible.  
Don’t they know?  
Didn’t anyone tell them? Didn’t anyone tell them it would be him and me at the end of it all?  
Where was I at the end of it all?  
Looking for him.  
I look for him even now.  
I think I’ll be looking for the rest of my life, begging for a ghost. Begging to be haunted. I’m half-dead already. He can have the whole of me. He’s killed what living I’ve clung to all these years. I thought I would give it to him at the end, that living half of myself. Let him run his sword through it. Let him burn it out of me.  
Alright Snow. You win. Take it. Take the other half. Take me with you to the grave. I’ll go quietly. Just come back and take me.

**Penelope**

The school year ends with the fall of the Insidious Humdrum and the death of Simon Snow. The 8th year Leaver’s Ball continues as planned, three days after the announcement, with only slight modifications. The valedictorian’s speech is followed not by the dance, but by a vigil. There will be a plaque. There will be a memorial. The Mage is giving us places to grieve and no time to do it.

We don’t even have a body to burn.

“From the moment I laid eyes on Simon, I knew he’d be our salvation-”

I knew he’d be my friend.

“I loved him like a son-”

Did you?

“The bravest of us-”

The bravest.

“Fighting for what is right, protecting the weak-”

He shouldn’t have had to. He was just a boy.

We’re just kids. We’re just kids, and my best friend is dead, and the World of Mages is mourning for an idea, for a soldier; they’re celebrating a victory. It’s a procession. It’s a farce. I can’t believe it. This is it? It’s not real. I’ll tell myself this isn’t real, it’s just a trick, until I’m alone again and can decide for myself. No one saw what I saw.

Agatha’s crying quietly at my side, but she’s handling it well. She’s handling it oddly well. She’s been taking care of me tonight without really looking at me; I don’t think I can look at her either. It’s hard to look at anyone right now. The only other person who looks as bad as I must look is Baz. I can’t stop looking at him; I feel like Simon. The thought is enough to make me smile. I feel like Simon as I sneak glances at Baz; he hurts to look at, and I didn’t think I could hurt anymore than I already do. The hurt breaks through the thick numbness that’s replaced the blood in my body. Baz looks - he looks hollow. He looks how he looked in fifth year; starved, gray. He looks like a vampire, sunken in on himself. He looks far away.

He sees me. We stare at each other. He nods shallowly. I nod back. It exhausts me. Who knew grief tired you out so much. I woke up this morning, ate a slice of toast, and went back to sleep until Mom and Dad brought me to Watford. That’s when Agatha stepped up beside me; I’ve never seen her so strong. I don’t know what happened when they told everyone that Simon died, but it got around that I’d been there; the questions should have come, but they didn’t. Not with Agatha Wellbelove unflinching in the face of the attention. I didn’t think she had it in her, but she’s faced her fair share of scrapes.

I find her hand next to me and squeeze it. She startles but she smiles; it’s the first time I’ve met her eyes. She’s crying too. The human body amazes me; I should have run out of tears.

Simon would say I should have a glass of water to make up for the tears. He’s the only boy I knew who cried openly. It embarrassed him but that didn’t mean he could stop it. Most things embarrassed him and most things he couldn’t stop. Simon Snow happened. Simon Snow was a happening.

We don’t have a body to burn. We point our wands, our rings, our buckles and bracelets and coins and artifacts and our hands up into the air. There’s hundreds of us. Maybe more than a thousand mages. Maybe more than that. Tonight goes beyond Watford. It’s for all of us. People became believers in the wake of his death. It’s already become a thing to say where you were when you felt Simon Snow die. Or was it where you were when the Humdrum died. June 3rd. 7:03am, Greenwich Mean Time. Just after sunrise. Most people were either asleep or having morning tea and coffee. The most mundane moment of their lives, suddenly spectacular and tragic because a boy they didn’t know died.

The sun sets. Darkness descends. There should be dancing and punch and little sandwiches and summer plans. There is only the night sky and the stars and a thousand and more mages readying to hang their magic in the air. The Mage’s voice booms like a thunderclap as he recites, magic crackling over us; I forget he’s powerful. (If he’s so powerful, where had he been?)

**“When he shall die,**   
**Take him and cut him out in little stars,**   
**And he will make the face of heaven so fine**   
**That all the world will be in love with night**   
**And pay no worship to the garish sun.”**

We light up. It’s as much a spell as a summoning. Simon Snow is dead, and we make him a star. We open our magic in a bright lament. If only Simon could see. We try to shine as bright as him. It’s quiet; the magic whines like an insect.

And then: fire.

Baz explodes with it; his wand casts a blue roar into the sky that climbs like it will burn out the curtain of the universe above us. In the light of his mourning, I can see his wet face. He doesn’t blink, watching his own fire twist in anguish upward, a one man pyre. I burn too; purple-hot. Agatha’s magic turns gold. Mrs. Possibelf pushes more magic into her wand. She was always gentle with Simon. When Ebb lets go, the force of it makes my hair frizz. She lights up the sky like she’s finishing a war. Starting one.

Mom said before Simon was born, she was the most powerful mage. I never knew. I wish Simon could have hid like she hides.

Our magic gathers together; the crowd sobs now. The magic sobs like a newborn. The decorum and austerity gives over to true grief. Simon had classmates. He had a community. He was a boy in school. We make him a star. We cry our magic into the sky and watch it rise; we burn out and let go. We vanish. Even Baz dwindles to a spark and to nothing. We go out one by one like sighs, like stage lights falling away in the last act. Ebb hangs on to the finale. The star rises and rises. All that magic...it will last for months. It might last all year.

If only Simon could see.

The Mage’s voice sounds thin when he speaks next. **"In justice. In courage. In defense of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good."**

He holds out his hand; we see him easily beneath Simon’s Star. He holds out his hand to summon his sword; he’s going to plant it into the boulder that sits outside of Watford, until the next worthy mage is born; it’s trite, but I know Simon would like that kind of legacy. He'd want to pull out the sword himself.

The Mage holds out his hand. The sword doesn’t materialize. He reaches for his belt, grasping for an invisible hilt. He repeats the incantation. Nothing happens.

Simon was holding the sword when he vanished. It’s vorpal. It can’t break or die. I mean, his clothes vanished, so maybe it doesn’t matter, but still. It’s The Mage’s sword. Maybe when Simon emptied out his magic, he took the magical artifact with him and absorbed it. Or maybe...

I squeeze Agatha’s hand.

“Penny?” she whispers.

“Maybe,” I say. I want to believe. “Maybe-”

“Penny, don’t.” Agatha squeezes my hand back. “Don’t say it. You’ll only hurt yourself more.”

Fine. I won’t say it. I’ll think it. Maybe Simon isn’t dead. Wherever the Sword of Mages is, Simon might still be there, holding on.

And then I whisper it out loud because words have magic and I’ll make them true. “Simon Snow is not dead.”

Agatha sighs, but she doesn’t let go of my hand.


	3. Midnight

**Shepard**

We get a little impatient and start before midnight. I kept telling Faroque and Mittens we should do it at 3am for maximum effectiveness, but they wanted to do midnight. Seances man. There’s an art to it. Faroque’s the current head of operations given his mom’s side of the family is Laveau descended. Supposedly. He's from north Louisiana. That’s practically Arkansas. I try not to judge but still, I’m a little suspicious of the credentials. I mean, I know he’s a Speaker. I just don’t know if he’s gonna be strong enough for this little endeavor. Dude’s got the set-up down at least. Feels pretty legit. Plus, Faroque’s cool, and Mitten’s house is for real haunted because whatever is under the bed skitters and chitters. It howls.

We surround a nondenominational summoning circle. Faroque, Mittens, Kylie, and myself. The thing with religious coding is that some creatures respond to familiar identities, but none of it confirms gods or anything. Well, not gods like The One and Only Amen. Gods are what we make them. Some gods came with the earth. Some grew. Some we believed into existence. Demons, I know, don’t have anything to do with religion, not really. They’re voids. They take. The say they’ll give, but at the end, they take it all. I know. I’ve got a demon wrapped around me. I’m in this scene for life.

It’s not a bad life.

Anyway. We’re trying to speak to the ghost that lives under Mitten’s bed (“Could my parents be any more white-people-horror-movie? The prior owners moved out because they said it was haunted!”) Mittens put up a cry for help on reddit, that got transplanted over to a few other sights until I got a hold of them and put them in touch with Faroque. Kylie wanted to come with because “roadtrip!” so now she and I are hanging out in a nice, if haunted, house by Lake Charles with people we met on the internet.

It’s not a bad life. It’s just a weird one. Mom hasn’t decided yet if my sudden commitment to all things cryptid and creepy is better than the storm chasing. She can’t say no to me. My “miraculous recovery” has bought me a lot of grace from her and dad. I worry her. I think that’s how it’s always gonna be between us. I worry her just by existing. She loves me hard.

June 5th. 11:58 pm, we start. By we, I mean Faroque. He’s got a big tomb in front of him and he’s reading Latin. My Latin’s crap. Faroque goes to Catholic school and takes private lessons.

I tried to talk to the ghosts under MItten’s bed but they didn’t answer. We’re going to find them a voice and find out what they want. Maybe they’re benevolent. Maybe they’re trapped.

Mittens says they’re dicks. Fair enough.

Faroque isn’t even on the second page of his incantation when the salt and ash circle we’ve drawn lights up. It’s beautiful and powerful for one jaw-dropping moment before the room fills with smoke. A haze rises up from that empty circle drawn in the floor; we sputter into coughs. Faroque tries to talk through the rasping of his throat, but he goes raw on a croak.

It doesn’t matter; what’s coming is coming. We opened a portal, and here it comes.

“No one talk first,” I shout. A fireball puffs up, sucking the air out of the room; my lungs empty. It goes cold, how I imagine space is cold.

“What the fuck.” Kylie never listens to me, but I get it.

“What the fuck,” I echo.

It’s some serious Lady of the Lake shit because there’s a sword rising up from the hole of light.

Kylie, my girl, she starts laughing, hysterical helium balloon laughing. We’re already holding hands, but I think she’d grab it again if she could. As it is, her grip tightens to the point of pain. “It’s the Master's Sword.”

“It’s Excalibur.”

We share a moment. The sword rises, from tip to guard to hilt. To hand.

There’s a boy attached to it.

He rises up out of the light and into the air, held aloft by his grip on the sword. He looks dead. He looks asleep. He hovers for an impossible moment in time before landing gently on the soles of his feet like a Ghibili princess. The light goes out beneath him.

“Is this the ghost?” Mittens whispers, staring up at the boy. I swallow and my mouth tastes like a church bonfire.

The boy remains standing with his eyes closed even as his sword arm slowly lowers until the tip of it hits the floor and leaves a clean scratch through the laminate wood. Mittens winces and runs a hand through their blue hair.

“That’s no ghost,” Faroque tells us, getting to his feet. “That’s a whole ass person.”

“We summoned a person?” Mittens runs both hands through their hair, spiking the bright blue mop messy. “Dude. Dude. I am not equipped for this. Is he dead?”

“I think he’s breathing,” Kylie says but there’s no conviction to it. The boy’s chest isn’t visibly moving. But Kylie’s smart and stupid at the same time. She doesn’t abide by most of my supernatural warnings. She gets up and moves to him, stepping into the circle.

“Kylie, please, please, make good choices,” I beg her.

“Chill.” She takes out her phone and holds the black screen up under the boy’s nose. After a second, she scrambles back out of the circle, trying to hide that she’s freaked out. “He’s breathing.”

Faroque sighs and stands up, extending his hand until it passes over the lines of the salt and ash. On his pinky finger, there’s a thimble. That’s his version of a wand. It doesn’t glow or anything, but it catches the light in a funny way when he does magic. **“Wakey, wakey, time for eggs and bakey.”**

The boy opens his eyes. They're pale with dead, slicked over with a cataract; they’re fish eyes, bulged and horrible. We collectively scream. And then his aren’t dead anymore; they’re blue and blinking. He comes alert with a snap, with a gasp. Golden warmth lights up within him, filling him out, shimmering over him. It shines like a comet streak, passing quickly, leaving the room in candlelight and shadow. He takes another shocked breath, and then another, hissing them into his lungs.

He swings the sword, stumbling out of the circle, eyes wide and frightened. He snarls at us.

“Who are you?” Wow, that’s an accent. We all stare at him between glancing at each other. Now they listen to me. Don’t speak. He raises his sword, backed into the corner like a wild dog.

“Where am I?” the boy demands. The fear fades, replaced by a hard-lined aggression. He’s going to kill us. I don’t know what or who he is, but he is pissed.

“My bedroom?” Mittens squeaks. So much for not speaking.

“Lake Charles,” Faroque says, glancing from his book to the boy, puzzled. “Louisiana.”

Well, I can’t get cursed twice. “America!”

His nose scrunches. He looks at the circle on the floor. He nudges over one of the candles with his toe and then looks slightly ashamed for having done that. “America?”

“Land of the free,” Kylie tags on with a single lazy jazz hand. She’s got 911 pulled up on her phone but hasn’t pressed call yet. “Welcome, stranger.”

He looks around, sword still at the ready. He looks between us and the door. “I was just in Lancashire.”

“Where’s that at?” Kylie asks.

“England.”

“Yeah, sounds like. Chip chip, cheerio, old boy.”

He scrunches his face up even more if possible; his mouth moves around saying ‘chip, chip, cheerio.’ He looks at the circle again, and then at Faroque and the tomb in his hand. He brightens with clarity. “Oh, did you rescue me?”

“What is your name,” Faroque asks in a calm slow voice. He squares his shoulders; he’s a tall dude.

The boy looks at us and whatever he sees, it doesn’t scare him. But he keeps a tight grip on that gleaming sword of his, holding it between his body and us. That sword is serious business, and he knows the weight of it. “I’m Simon Snow.”

“Bad ass name,” Mittens says, nodding approvingly. At that, Simon smiles, and something about that smile sets me at ease.

“You’re not a demon,” I say. He’s way too corporeal to be a ghost.

“What?” Simon sputters. “No way! Am I supposed to be? Demon summoning was outlawed in the fourteenth century; even I know that!”

“Right, totally,” Kylie says in a tone of voice that is so not appropriate right now. She cannot get smarmy about demon summoning when a boy literally floated out of the floor. Seriously, we are not in the position to judge anyone right now. Simon’s squinting at Kylie, not meanly, but like he’s working something out in his head and his eyes just happened to get left in her direction. He frowns, and it goes deep. It takes up his whole face. He’s holding the sword, and that’s how we can see when he starts trembling. The silver of it wavers. He goes tight and then he breaks out in a nervous shiver - he sucks in a tight gasp, eyes widening.

I think the dude’s having a panic attack.

Yeah buddy, I don’t blame you. It’s a weird life.

“Simon,” I say, scrambling to my feet. “Woah, buddy. Hey. You’re good my guy. We’re all good people. It’s gonna be alright.”

The hand that isn’t clinging to the hilt of his sword for dear life goes to his curls and he pulls so hard it has to hurt; I can see the skin of his scalp move.

“I can’t feel it,” he whispers.

“You okay?”

His shoulders hunch in as he starts to curl into himself. He half bends, knees buckled before locking again. Any second now, I think he’s going to scream. He looks like a little kid like this, stuck in a fit.

“I can’t feel my magic.”

Faroque’s beside me all of a sudden, his hand out. **“Keep Calm and Carry On.”**

Simon takes a deep whooshing breath and sinks to his butt on the floor, legs giving out, body slumping. He draws his next breath in through his nose and out again. He stares at Faroque desperately, but he breathes evenly.

“Thanks,” he rasps, head thunking back against the wall. He shuts his eyes, throat bobbing on a tight swallow.

“You’re alright, man,” Faroque tells him.

Simon nods. He turns his face away; he stares out at something. He grunts and points his sword at Mitten’s bed. “You know you got a pair of wraiths under your bed?”

“Dude,” Mittens snaps at Faroque. “I thought you said it was ghosts.”

Faroque shrugs. “I don’t know what a wraith is.”

“They’re annoying and mean,” Simon says, detached. “My roommate says his family keeps wraiths in their guest bedroom so no one overstays their welcome.” Simon blinks blearily up at me and Faroque again. “That’s a wicked spell. Wish Penny knew it; that would have been super helpful all these years.”

He doesn’t start hyperventilating again. No. He just starts to cry.

“Uhh,” Mittens gets up finally. “Okay. I’m out of my depth.”

“Me too,” Kylie says. “Ghouls and ghosties, sure, but I think we just summoned like, King Arthur or something.”

“He’s a Speaker,” I tell her.

“Without magic,” Faroque says quietly. Simon sniffs hard and scrubs a hand across his face. The spell might have made him cry because he seems to be getting over it pretty suddenly. He clenches his jaw and juts his chin and his face goes hard.

“What year is it?” Simon asks, looking between Faroque and me.

Oh, god. Please tell me we did not rip someone out of time.

“It’s June fifth, twenty-fifteen.”

“Technically it’s tomorrow now. The sixth.”

“June sixth. Twenty-fifteen,” Simon repeats. Then he sighs, a hand over his heart. “Alright, only, uh, lost a couple of days. Not too bad, same year and all. That’s a relief. I do not want to be ripped out of time again. It messed up my sleep for a month.” He grins at us, like we’re the ones who kept him from being displaced from space and time. This guy’s wild.

“Simon Snow,” I tell him seriously, “I think we’re gonna be friends.”

I offer my hand to him. He takes it with the hand not holding his sword and lets me heave him back to his feet.


	4. June 6th

**Simon**

  * It’s June 6th, 2015. Magic is real. I’m not crazy. I’m not dreaming. I’m not in a care home making this all up in my head because Faroque is a mage too.
  * He's the only mage. The skinny Black guy is Shepard, the white kid with the blue hair is Mittens (is that a name?) and the Black girl with all the piercings is Kylie. They don’t seem evil, just Normal.
  * I was in Lancashire and now I’m in Louisiana.
    * (America!)
  * I sent Penny home. I know I did. I felt it. She’s safe. 
  * I defeated the Humdrum.
  * I am the Humdrum
    * Was?
  * Using my magic made Dead Spots. I stole magic out of the world. I get it now. I’m the Humdrum. 
    * I’m not anymore. Or I am, always am. Or I will be. I don’t know. _I don’t know_.
  * I think I died.
    * I swear I died. I felt it. I felt myself being less, becoming less. I am less now. I can’t feel my magic. I know it’s gone. 
  * I still have the Sword of Mages. I’m too scared to let go of it in case it vanishes. 
  * Penny had been covered in blood. I hurt her. My magic hurt her. I boiled her hand with it.
    * Maybe it’s better that my magic’s gone.
  * This list is shit.
    * It’s real shit.
  * These people seem nice. They’re feeding me. I’m so hungry I could throw up. Or faint. Or die.
    * I should be dead.
  * This list is the worst.



  
  


**Shepard**

We raid Mittens’ kitchen for food. Faroque said we kind of had to because the side effect of his **wakey** spell is ravenous hunger and Simon Snow is putting it away. It’s like watching a car crash and a shark mauling a baby seal at the same time. You can't look away even though it's terrible. We burn through a whole carton of eggs and milk, a bag of shredded cheese, a pound of bacon and a box of frozen waffles. Breakfast for dinner always does the trick. Simon got really wigged out about the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. Like, really really wigged out, but he ate it. I don’t know if there’s anything this guy won’t eat. S’pose that makes him a normal teenage boy.

Faroque and Mittens seem impressed when Simon adds more Tony’s to his eggs without coughing. Kylie and I sneeze.

“I like this,” Simon says, tapping the container of seasoning. He’s only got one hand free. He won’t let go of his sword. It hangs off his hand like a vestigial limb. We all keep our distance. Thank god Mittens’ parents aren’t home. I mean, yeah, that was the plan. Parents are off in Texas and Mittens took advantage of their first weekend of summer free from parents to get the ghost (wraiths) taken care of with all the strange kids from the internet. Bonus: no adults to freak out about the extra teenager ripped out of a pocket dimension. Score one for planning ahead.

It’s awesome.

“So Simon, let me make some introductions,” I say, now that he’s starting to take a breath between bites and not guarding his food and glaring like a traumatized pitbull in an episode of Animal Cops. “I’m Shepard Riley, from Omaha. That’s Kylie Duquez, also from Omaha. That’s Faroque, he’s from the internet. Mittens is from the internet too.” I don’t know their last names. I only gave Kylie’s because I’ve done this for her before.

“Right,” Simon says warily. He scrubs his hand across his mouth, clearing it of grease and syrup before wiping it on his pants. He's a man of the people. “Are you all Mages?”

“Just me,” Faroque tells him. He pulls a stool over to the other side of the island in the middle of the kitchen. Simon watches every movement warily. Faroque moves slowly. “In America, we’re called Speakers.”

Simon’s eyes narrow, not accusatorily but like he has to move his face with every thought he has. “Do you know who I am?”

“You said your name is Simon Snow.”

“Yeah.” He lifts his head and tilts his chin out a little. “Does that - does that mean anything to you?” He flicks his eyes around to all of us, searching for a reaction.

“What, you famous or something?” Kylie asks. She’s tempered her boldness earlier but her words still snap a little too much.

Simon shrugs and ducks his head, leading by the chin. He looks up at her from under his curls shly. “Not to Normals.”

“I haven’t heard of you,” Faroque says. “But I know the Brits have a different thing going on. It’s not like that here.”

“Like what?” Simon asks, exchanging wariness for curiosity.

“Magic,” I interrupt, too excited to keep quiet. “Speakers here don’t isolate themselves with other magicians.”

“We do our own thing,” Faroque interrupts me, giving me a look. Right yeah, should let the Speaker do the speaking.

Simon looks more confused. “What do you mean, do your own thing? Did you leave the Coven? Is this like uh, uh, the American Revolution? Like you threw the tea in the ocean so now you don’t do magic like us? I guess Micah was weird about it when he visited. He never knew what was going on.” He starts chewing on his lip and after a minute, stabs a bit of Eggo and eats it.

This guy’s a trip.

Faroques no expert on Speaker culture. He’s got his family history which he uses to make money; it’s a good gig. He’d go down to New Orleans but the job market’s already flooded down there (along with the streets) and he says he can get more traffic if he takes his power up north and through the country; he’s working on building up more of a network while he stays with his parents for the time being. That’s why I hooked Mittens’ up with him; his price is low for haunting removals and communions.

I take over, leaning a little over the island. Simon sits back, eyes snapping to me, his sword shoulder rolling a little. I lean away again, holding my palms up. “Speakers, er, Mages here, don’t have a centralized community or organization. They’re just normal people who happen to have magic. America’s big, really really big. It’s a mess of everyone and everything. I don’t know if this country can be organized. But I know a little about a lot, and the name Simon Snow has not popped up on my radar.”

“What about the Insidious Humdrum,” he asks next, looking at me intently, mouth curling down. “Or Dead Spots?”

“Dead Spots?”

“Place where magic doesn’t work.”

“Oh, Quiet Zones? We got tons of them.”

He flinches. “I’m sorry.” He drops his fork and starts raking his fingers through his curls, tugging them forward and down over his face like he can hide with them. “I’m sorry. Fuck. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to make them. I killed him. I killed it. I won’t - I can’t - It won’t happen again. I swear. I swear.” He shakes his head and then brings his hand down in a fist, slamming it to the countertop. I wish he kept his face covered. None of us are ready for the vulnerable panic warping in his eyes. 

Mittens was right. We might be out of our depth.


	5. Ridiculous

**Agatha**

I didn’t mean to yell at Penny, but she’s being ridiculous. Simon’s dead; she told us all herself. Ever since The Mage failed to conjure his sword, she’s convinced herself that means Simon isn’t dead. I pity her; I never thought I could pity Penelope Bunce. She wants to find Simon. She showed up on my doorstep this morning, asking me to research with her.

“Research what?”

“How to find Simon.” She says it like it’s the most reasonable and obvious thing in the world. She believes it. It’s true. I pity her. She never listened to me about all this; that this destiny business would end in death. That’s how these stories go. She should know that the original fairytales end in death. The hero doesn’t get the girl. They die.

I don’t tell anyone how glad I am to be out of the fairytale. I feel freed. I might be an awful person.

“Penelope, you need to accept what happened,” I tell her gently. I try to be gentle. I don’t want to be an awful person. I don’t want to hurt her. But she’s setting herself up for failure. She tries to convince me by overwhelming me, by piling on contradictory evidence, by talking over me. She works herself up until she’s out of breath; it’s all maybes and what-ifs and wishful thinking. She’s in denial.

I tell her no. She the one who yells first.

“You never loved him!”

“Yes I did!” So what if it wasn’t the love everyone thought it was or it should have been. I loved Simon. I miss him. I’m _sad for him_. But I’m not going to deny reality and run away. I’m going to live. I’m going to live and figure out how to be happy if it kills me. I wish he could see me. I wish he could do this too. I can mourn and can keep living at the same time. I don’t have to lie to myself. “You do _not_ get to tell me how I loved or how I get to grieve.”

I don’t tell her I’m not coming back for eighth year. After this, mom and dad will do anything to keep me from falling apart. I don’t feel broken. I want to keep it that way.

**Baz**

They call him a martyr. Fiona joked that someone’s busy building a Saint Snow statue as we speak. It’s not funny. The Old Families are keeping schtum on whether or not they really believe the Insidious Humdrum is dead. It’s a delicate time in the world of mages. If the Humdrum is truly dead, then The Mage has nothing to hang over their heads; War will break the silence. Father’s whispering about a coup, about deposing The Mage from the Coven and Watford.

The Mage has receded into silence; I wonder if he’s grieving.

If the Humdrum is truly dead, then Simon Snow really did it, the beautiful disaster. And he’s dead too.

I’d rather have the Humdrum stealing magic out of the world than have a world without Simon Snow. It isn't a fair trade.

That fucking coward. He wouldn’t even face me in battle. He’s left me with a mess. He’s left me with a War and no one to win against. I don’t care. I don’t care about what comes next. I don’t give a single fuck about the world of mages. What kind of world holds its breath for a seventeen year old boy to save it? To fight for it?

I don’t believe it; I won't. It could be a trap, a trick. The Mage could be hiding Snow. That’s what the other Families are saying; that’s why they’re waiting. They’ll give it a year; people are sniffing out the truth. Father tried to suggest I wouldn’t finish my eighth year at Watford; I told him over my half-dead body. He didn’t care for my choice of words.

I don’t care.

I’m going back to school. It’s all I have left. My mother’s grave and a star in the sky. I’ll feed it. I’ll put fire into Simon’s Star every day. It’s all that’s left of him.

I’m pathetic. We’re a week into summer and I’ve barely left my room to shower. Vera drops off covered dishes and thermoses of blood at my door. (She doesn't know what they are. I spell them warm.) I’d starve myself if I could, but I don’t want to know what the hunger would do to me when I’m already this detached from reality; not with Mordelia and the twins and the baby in the house. I consume enough to stay in control but not nearly enough to feel alive. (Not that I've felt alive in years. Not properly. Not whole. The closest I get is when Simon and I are at each other's throats.) I don’t want to feel anything close to living.

If I kill myself a little bit more then maybe Simon will pull me the rest of the way through the veil. I’ll make it easy for him. I'll let him take me by the hand and drag me down with him.

I play with fire. I toss it up into the air like a ball. Like a stupid ball, like the one I took from him when we were kids. He was so annoying; he used to lay on his bed and throw it up to the ceiling and let it smack back down in his palm. He’d do it all night. Run home from class, snotty and weeping because he’s shit at magic and he’d lay there, smoking with embarassment, tossing his stupid ball until he calmed down.

I catch the fire; it hovers above my palm.

I catch the fire on the tip of my finger. I flick it over to the next. I pass it back and forth between my hands. I throw it in the air and play chicken with myself, holding my breath every time.

I could just -

I could just not catch it -

I could let it fall and -

Would I burn down the house?

When you burn a mage’s body, you release their magic. Mage pyres are beautiful. They burn like rainbows. Some mages burn for days. Simon Snow would probably burn forever, if we had a body. If we could burn his body, I think I’d throw myself on the pyre. I’d kiss him through the flames. My ash would mix with his. They wouldn’t be able to separate it. I could burn with him for the rest of eternity. Let it end in flames. That’s all that’s left inside me. Fire running out of fuel.

There’s a sculpture of two women entwined in lover’s sleep. Memorial To A Marriage. The artist would mark her grave with her love. It’s beautiful. My love is not beautiful, but Simon is beautiful enough to make up for my ugliness, even dead. He would burn beautifully.

That’s all that’s left in me; ashes waiting to be scattered. I’m what’s left after a fire. The wreck. The smoke. Wasteland.

Someone knocks at my door.

“Young Master Pitch,” Vera calls softly through the heavy wood. I already picked at breakfast. Maybe it’s tea. Maybe Mordy is in a strop and crying for me to come out and play. “You’ve a friend here to see you.”

Dev and Niall might have finally begun to worry. I can’t. I don’t know what anyone has to say. But if I send them away, it’ll cause a fuss. My family’s already put-off by this depressive spiral I’m in; I’ve covered it up by saying I’m disappointed the Humdrum killed Snow before I could.

They must want to believe it badly enough to believe that lie. I wish I could lie to myself as well as I can lie to everyone else. I wish I could convince myself a different truth. That I’m not hopelessly in love with Simon Snow. That Simon Snow is alive and in hiding and preparing a secret battle with The Mage. That there’s still hope for -

I can’t even finish the thought.

The fire vanishes from my hand.

I spell away the worst of my body odour but the miasma of funk around me is a lost cause. It’s summer break, I’ll wear my pajamas in my own bloody house; it’s not even noon yet.

Penelope Bunce is standing on the front carpet, arms crossed, her foot tapping. She’s in a skirt and blouse and knee socks like she’s about to attend class. Seeing her is as good as seeing a ghost. Seeing Penelope usually means seeing Snow. I can’t help it; I look for him like he's snooping around the corner.

“Baz,” she greets, a manic edge to her voice. “You’re wearing pajamas.”

“Bunce. How lovely for you to drop by.” I slide my hands into the pockets of my silk sleep shorts and try to appear as if this is an intentional sartorial choice and slink down the stairs, standing on the final one well tall over her. She has to tilt her head up to look into my eyes. She looks like shit. I despair to imagine my own appearance.

I think I would buy into the whole “Simon Snow is in hiding” plotline if Penelope Bunce hadn’t been a catanoic mess at the funeral. Simon would never let her suffer. He’d never let Wellbelove weep like that. He’d never let a thousand and some mages mourn him. He doesn’t hurt people like that. He absolutely wouldn’t let me think he was weak enough to die.

Bunce takes a deep breath, blinking at me. She hasn’t said a word yet and that’s definitely not her way. She’s as brilliant as me, I’ll give her that, but she doesn’t have the same patience that I have (Lie). She doesn’t plan long-term. It’s Snow’s fault; his impulsiveness rubbed off on her. But he’s dead now.

Seeing her without him makes me sick.

“Baz.” Her head tips and she keeps looking at me, like she can see through my cleaning spell and see the rot of me. “Baz,” she says again, taking another dramatic steadying breath that leaves her with a sigh, and then she peers around behind me.

I turn to follow her gaze. Mordelia is creeping on the stairwell, clinging to a banister rung, her head poked through the wood.

“Is that your girlfriend?” Mordelia asks. Penelope snorts and mutters “as if” under her breath. She should be so lucky.

“Mordy, go away.”

“Who are you?” Mordelia asks, ignoring me. What a menace. Ordinarily I'd be proud of her impertinence.

“I’m Penelope Bunce. I go to school with your brother.” Let no one forget that Bunce has a million siblings.

Mordelia’s eyes go huge. She yanks herself out of the rungs so fast she almost clips her face on the banister. “You saw the Chosen One die! Did he really defeat the Humdrum?”

“Mordelia,” I snarl, turning on her. Bunce looks like someone’s stabbed her; I can hear her heart start to race.

“That’s what everyone’s saying,” Morderlia snaps back, voice high and whining and indignant.

“Crowley. Come on, Bunce,” I order, jerking Bunce once by the wrist and dragging her out of the foyer and through my house, hanging onto the surge of anger in my chest rather than the grief. Bunce stumbles behind me, pulling herself free from my grip; I don't miss her rubbing her wrist; I used too much strength. She keeps pace behind me until we’re in my family’s library. I spell the door locked and dive in amongst the comforts of leather bindings and dusty pages. This is familiar territory. This is the kind of place that will make Bunce feel safe. She deserves that at the very least.

“Why are you here?” I demand, not wasting anymore time. My skin crawls beneath her gaze. She looks around for an appreciative moment before snapping back to attention.

“I saw you at the memorial.”

“Obviously. I was there.”

She shakes her head. “No, Baz. I saw you. Crying. Mourning Simon. You burned so much magic for his star.”

I’ve dodged this question before. I feed her the same line. “It was a show of force.”

I flick my hair back in a show of indifference. I should have spelled it into shape. My fingers catch on a tangle that I rip apart painfully. “Let everyone see how much magic I have to spare. Besides, Simon Snow might have been an idiot, but if he really did defeat the Humdrum, then I owe him that much. I am a mage, after all.”

Bunce blinks; her eyes get a little wet and for a revolting moment, mine start to burn in response to her plain grief. But she stiffens up, lifting her chin. The gesture doesn’t help the tears coming to my own eyes. Crowley.

I can’t do this.

“Is that why you’re here?” I snap, trying to cover up the pinching of my face with annoyance.

“I don’t know who else to ask,” she says quietly, whispering, hands out and patting at the air as if to keep her words from floating free. “And I really, really think that what I saw was what I saw.”

My heartbeat thuds up into the back of my mouth. This is Wellbelove all over again; I’m reduced to an object of observation. My worst and most vulnerable bits, stolen in looks. I’m pathetic. My family must be desperate to believe I’m just like them if they can ignore the obvious; I must be obvious if these two girls can see through me.

“You don’t know what you saw.”

She shakes her head. “You don’t have to lie to me. You were crying, Baz. You look,” she emphasizes her statement with a dressing down sweep of her eyes, “you look worse than me.”

“I look fabulous.”

She actually laughs. “Pitch, please. I grew up with you. I listened to Simon talk about you every day. I’ve been subjected to unwilling observation of all things Baz. I know what you look like and this is not fabulous.”

If I kill Bunce, Simon will definitely haunt me. It’s a tempting thought. “What do you want, Bunce?”

She steadies. “Help me find him.”

There’s an appropriate response. There’s a response that maintains the last scraps of my dignity. There’s a response that doesn’t give it all away. I don’t know what it’s supposed to be.

“He’s not dead?” _Please_.

“Well,” she huffs. “I don’t think so. I have a theory. You see-”

I hold up a hand. I’ve my wand, of course I have my wand. I jerk my head for her to follow me and lead her further into the library, into a small closet full of filing cabinets. She follows me in with blind trust. She must be desperate. I feel desperate. My hearts knocking into the frail birdcage of my ribs. I put up a soundproofing spell. Her ring glows amethyst light, painting our conspiring faces in a chiaroscuro of lavender shadow.

“Why are you telling me this,” I whisper.

“Because I think you’re the only other person who wants him to be alive as much as I do,” she spits. “Because I think you’ll believe me. I think you’ll help me.”

She’s right. I don’t say it, but she’s right; my lack of denial is confirmation enough for her.

“What’s your theory?” I ask. She sighs with relief.


	6. I'm evil

* * *

**Simon**

They don’t think I’m evil because they don’t know me. They don’t know about the Insidious Humdrum. They don’t know about the Dead Spots opening across Great Britain. They don’t know about Watford or The Mage or the Coven or the Old Families or about the Great War.

“What, like, World War three?”

I figure that’s kind of right, but I’m rubbish at history, both magical and Normal. Who knows how bad the War could be, but I guess if America doesn’t know about it, then it’s not exactly a _world war_ then is it? I think that’s the weirdest part of what’s happening: that what seems all-consuming to me isn’t a factor at all to these people. Not just because most of them are Normals because the mage doesn’t know either, but because my life and theirs don’t line up. I want to say I’m in an alternate reality, but everything else lines up. Same music, same celebrities. Same world. I know Micah said American politics were different but I didn’t think he meant _this different_. The Mage did say America was a lost cause full of rebels and cowboys and magical degenerates.

(Professor Bunce once said that “The Mage stands firmly upon the opinion that all other magical organizations lack his vision and foresight.” On paper, the words don't look bad, but the way she said it made it sound bad. I think I knew what she was on about, but we couldn't get into it then. Premal had been there and he'd gotten mad; it'd been a whole thing.)

I try to explain my life to them. I’m shit at it, but I think they get the gist. Being an orphan. The magic exploding in me. The Mage finding me and telling me I’m the Chosen One; the Humdrum as my big bad. That my nemesis is (probably) a teenage vampire who is also my roommate and also the heir to the equivalent of magical aristocratic Tories. The looming War. It’s a lot. As I talk, their eyes get bigger, their faces more alarmed. They trade a lot of looks.

They probably think I’m crazy. As I talk, I feel a little crazy. Just telling them the summary of my life exhausts me.

“Dude,” Mittens says.

“Dude,” Shepard says.

“That is so fucked,” Kylie says.

“Never thought I’d be a proud American but,” Faroque pulls on one of his twists and flicks it away from his face. “That’s bananas.”

“I guess,” I shrug. I stare at my reflection sliced across the flat of the Sword of Mages where it lays across my lap.

I explain the battle with the Humdrum; I can’t believe that happened. It just happened. (It happened three days ago….) I emptied all my magic into it; it was me. I don’t know. I went see-through. (How do I have the Sword?) I try not to think about it.

“My best guess is, as your magic,” Faroque wiggles his fingers meaningfully at me, “took you out of the world, we brought you back into it.” He shrugs. “Like a loop closing. Magic’s weird like that. It likes to even things out.”

Penny wouldn’t say that. She’d say there’s a logical explanation. (Logic and magic go together. As a kid, when I thought about magic, I thought it’d be the absence of logic. A force of unreason. A dreaming wishing force. If only that were true. I'm good at wishing and hoping and dreaming.)

“What spell were you casting?” I try to think like Penny. Or Baz. They wouldn’t accept ‘magic is weird’ as an answer. I bet if either of them were here, they’d figure it out by now. They're the two smartest people I know, and I don't even like Baz. Baz wouldn’t have let this happen in the first place.

Faroque lets me look at his book (but not touch it. I wash my hands at the kitchen sink but he still won't let me. Family heirloom.) My Latin’s crap. It’s a summoning spell. For Angel or Demon, for Good or Evil, For Wicked or Honorable, For Killer or Protector, come Mighty or Weak, come one come all. That’s the long and short of it. I hope they pulled me here with the nice parts of the spell.

All I am is across the ocean and it feels like a different world. A world where I don’t have magic. I’m Simon Snow, and I’m no one to them. All my time in the care homes, I imagined I was someone. A famous footballer’s kid. An actress or a model’s kid. That I’d be swept into starlight and safety. That I belonged to someone. That I belonged _somewhere_. Magic had been that, like a key to let me into a real life, a life I'd been denied. I thought I belonged to the world of mages, to Watford. But all along, I’d been the thing destroying it.

A virus must think it belongs in a body too.

All the food I ate turns over in my stomach. Swallowing keeps it down. I hate puking. I hate wasting food.

Shepard leans closer to me. Very slowly, he reaches over and lays his hand on my shoulder. I think about shrugging him off or jerking away. I watch his hand touch me, waiting for it to boil and burn; but I’m not magic anymore.

He squeezes my shoulder and smiles at me. “Well, you’re here now, so let’s figure something out, yeah?”

I’m not happy, but I smile back at him, just a little. I don’t have a choice. That’s one thing I’ve learned, no matter how thick I am. What’s going to come is going to come, and I don’t have a choice. I can only stand my ground and take the blow.

**Shepard**

We can’t stay at Mittens’ house. Their parents will be home later today. Mittens reminded everyone that, magical boy or no magical boy, there are wraiths under their bed. Simon had gotten off his stool and stomped upstairs; we all followed like the Scooby Doo gang. With Faroque and my help, we pushed the bed across the floor.

Simon made a funny face and then he kind of - fought some ghosts? Wraiths or whatever. I guess they’re not benevolent cause he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to kill stuff for no reason. It looked like CGI acting because he swung his sword around at the empty space where the bed had been, face determined. Then Faroque jumped about a foot in the air and the air went cold and Simon waved his sword one last time and gave Mittens a thumbs up.

“All clear.”

Hesitantly, Mittens returned the gesture. Faroque nodded decisively and elbowed Mittens. “Two hundred bucks.”

“Okay, but Simon deserves like, fifty of it.”

So Faroque gave Simon a fifty. If Mittens meant fifty percent, they don't clarify.

“You could make money like that,” Faroque told Simon. “If you can see magical creatures and you got a magical sword; there’s money in that.”

Simon started to bluster in offense about not being a mercenary, but Faroque doesn’t linger on white boy rage. He turned back to me. “Shep. This has been a weird one.”

“Sure has.” Like I said. It’s a weird life.

Mittens politely kicks us out of their house to hyperventilate alone in their wraith-free bedroom. Faroque shakes my hand and thanks me for the hook-up. He got paid. I got my vouyer kick.

Which leaves me and Kylie and Simon Snow in the driveway of a house in Lake Charles, Louisiana. (Mittens slides the bolt across their front door. That's just overkill man.)

“So what’s happening now?” Kylie asks. The sun’s properly up and the humidity’s already hell. Louisiana in the summer. Awful. It’s not even noon and it’s already ninety degrees. Simon unbuttons the top three buttons of his shirt, fanning himself with the fabric. He’s in dark slacks and loafers. He'd been wearing his school uniform. I want to tell him he's like Sailor Moon but I don't think he'll get the reference.

“A very important question my friend.” Kylie and I drove here. (“Roadtrip!”) “Do you wanna hit New Orleans?”

“I mean,” she looks at Simon who meets her gaze before dropping his eyes to the ground. “Should we?”

“Simon, buddy, how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Okay, so, hmmm,” I muse.

“I should go home,” Simon says, looking up at the sky. “Find Penny.”

“That your girlfriend?” Kylie asks.

“No. She’s my best friend. My girlfriend -,” his face gets all funny. He pulls on his curls. “Merlin, they must think I’m dead.”

“Honestly, Simon,” Kylie says, turning on him, crossing her arms. She doesn’t let him settle into his horrified expression. She moves like a shark after blood in the water. “From what you told us, that’s a fucking blessing.”

I wince, but I don't disagree. Simon’s life is messed up. I don’t think he disagrees either; he deflates, but he doesn't rebuff her assessment.

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” he mumbles. With his accent so thick and his voice pitched so low, we can barely understand him.

“Well,” I say tentatively. I'm not good at saying no to bad ideas. Call it my fatal flaw. “How about, for now, you come with us. There’s no rush, right? It’s summer. Take a day off from being Simon Snow. Take a week. You defeated your big bad; time for a vacation. We’re headed back to Nebraska. Nebraska has airports just the same as Louisiana does. So…”

“So if you gotta get back to England, you can leave from there,” Kylie picks up my thread. “But you’ll just get a little fresh air first.”

“I should tell someone I’m alive,” he mumbles again. The thought does not inspire any of us.

“Simon,” I say. “What’s waiting for you when you go back?”

He clenches his jaw. I’m not trying to dig at the magic he lost (apparently he was explosively powerful. The most powerful. So powerful it was tearing apart the fabric of magic. I guess if New York City suddenly lost magic, it’d be a big deal.)

“War,” Kylie exclaims. “War is waiting. Jesus, man, hit a water park first or something.”

“I can’t abandon my friends,” Simon argues. He slashes at the air to demonstrate his point. Kylie and I hop further out of range. Simon steps back too.

“Well, no offense, but you don’t have any magic. So like, let’s call it a recovery period. You don’t have to come, but-” Kylie says.

“But you’re welcome to come with us,” I say, interrupting her. We don’t know Simon from Adam but if angels should come a-knockin. I like this more than storm chasing. I spread my hands in offering. “Could be fun, Simon Snow.”

He looks up from under his curls, rubbing the back of his neck. Kylie hums thoughtfully. “You don’t know me.”

“We just hung out with some kid from the internet named Mittens. We’re open-minded,” Kylie says.

Simon snorts. “My life’s a mess.”

“Yeah, you’re a teenager. That’s normal.”

He’s still rubbing the back of his neck nervously but he relaxes his sword down at his side. I point at it.

“That has to go in the trunk.”

“No.”

“You’ll stab yourself in the back seat.”

“No.” His hand tightens around the hilt. His jaw flexes. “It stays with me.”

It’s not a fight I’m going to win. I could threaten to leave him here, but that’s - that’d be fucked up of me. I’m not sure if what we did ripped Simon out of like, mage limbo or what, but I feel responsible for the fact that he’s standing here with us. Not personally responsible but adjacently responsible.

“Alright, fine,” I concede, throwing my hands in the air. “But no stabbing, not slicing, no maiming my upholstery.”

“No slobbering, no chewing, you will wear a flea collar,” Kylie adds, cracking up. She claps and spins on her heel. “This is a fucking weird one, Shep.”

Simon’s lip curls back, scrunching his nose. “I’m not a dog.”

Kylie flings open the backseat of my Honda. “Sure, sure, now get in and buckle up, oh magical Chosen One.”

Simon blanks. He stares at her for a long moment before he obeys, huffing out a breath and dropping his chin low. He pours into the back seat awkwardly, the sword resting over his lap. Kylie closes him in and turns back to look at me, giving me bug-eyes.

“Kylie,” I say quietly, “I don’t think we should call him that.”

She glanced over her shoulder to look at Simon - flat, clenched up - and nods once.

**Baz**

Penelope Bunce has lost the fucking plot.

**Penelope**

I don’t think Baz believes me.

**Baz**

“You think Snow’s alive because The Mage couldn’t conjure the Sword of Mage’s?”

“Yes.”

I could kill her. I want to. For making me believe for a terrible moment that Simon Snow yet lived.

“That’s not evidence.” I’m hiding in an archive closet in my family’s library so Penelope bloody Bunce can mangle what remains of my heart. If Snow ever wanted a way to kill me, this might do the trick.

“Did you father tell you what I told the Coven for my formal testimony?” she gets out in a rush, grabbing the front of my pajamas. “Oh that’s soft…” She rubs the silk between her thumb and forefinger. Numpty.

I smack her hand away. “Yes.”

Why pretend otherwise? She’s already gone around the bend. The Humdrum teleported her and Snow to Lancashire. It was a great shadowy entity; Simon stabbed it with his sword and the force of the magical explosion left a black scorch on the ground (confirmed) and sent Penelope Bunce magically back to her own home.

“I lied.”

She’s mad. She is well and truly mad. “Why would you lie - is this all a bloody lie? Is Snow going to pop out of my pants drawer and scare me to death?”

She shakes her head, her purple hair - purple from the light of her ring, purple from her magical dye job - swishing around audibly. “I lied to protect Simon. Even if I’m only protecting his memory. The Humdrum wasn’t a big shadowy monster. It was Simon.”

“You’re losing me, Bunce.”

“Simon is the Humdrum,” she says slowly, over enunciating. “It told us so, and I confirmed it. It had his face, Baz. From when he was a little boy. What he looked like when he first came to Watford. It even had that stupid red ball he used to play with.”

“Seven Snakes,” I whisper, struck dumb by it. It’s borderline blasphemous to suggest; Bunce would never say this about Simon, say something so ironically hilariously terrible if she didn’t have more than a hunch.

She nods, encouraged by my proper shock. “It said to him that it’s the thing Simon leaves behind. It’s the nothing of no magic. I didn’t get it at first, but Simon did. He knew what to do…”

“Stab it?” That’d be just like the beautiful idiot.

“He gave it his magic.”

That’s not possible. You can’t give people magic. It’s not transmittable. It’s not transmutable. It’s fixed for the individual. A mage can get wiser but a mage can’t get more magic, just better at it; there’s a limited well within a body, like blood. (Nevermind; that metaphor is tasteless.) (Oh Crowley, that pun’s terrible.)

I’m losing my mind.

“Bunce.”

“He tried to give it to me!” She shoves her hand up into my face, waving it under my nose, smacking me a little. “Even in a Dead Spot, he was burning up with it. He grabbed me and his _magic_ went _into_ me. It’s like I stuck my hand on the stove. But I felt - I felt ten times more alive when it happened. I felt limitless. Full.”

“Alright, Merlin, stop before you shove a finger up my nose.” I grab her hand and hold it in the air, holding it like I’ll find Snow’s unnatural warmth lingering in her palm. The texture is slightly rough; I look at it in the lavender light and from fingertips to elbow, there's a faint puckered quality to her skin. Magically healed burns.

She opens her mouth to go on another Bunce rant, but I hear a creak in the floor beyond us. “Be quiet.”

“Don’t tell me to-”

The archive door flings open.

“-be quiet,” she finishes.

“Basilton.”

My father fills up the doorway, the library light pouring in around the outline of him. His eyebrows make a speculative dash for his very high hairline. It’s the most athletic I’ve seen his face in years.

Stevie Nicks and Gracie Slick, how this scene must look to him. I let go of Penelope’s hand, but it’s too little too late. I wish I weren’t in my pajamas. It would be so much better if I was not in my pajamas in a closet with Penelope Bunce. It wouldn't be that much better, but it’d be a little better.

“Vera said a friend came over from school, and I couldn’t find you,” Malcolm Grimm-Pitch drawls in a vaguely pleased note.

Bunce looks like a deer caught in the headlights. Or like a deer right before I drain its blood.

“Hi, Mr. Grimm-Pitch,” she greets. She elbows me a little in her effort to turn away from where we’d been crammed together. I elbow her back, apparently regressing. She steps on my foot even as she extends the hand I’d previously been clutching out to my father. “I’m Penelope Bunce.”

My father doesn’t smile. His facial expressions are far too nuanced for the vulgarity of a smile. But he shakes Penelope’s hand.

“You’re Mitali’s daughter.”

“Yes, sir!”

My father hums and disentangles himself physically from the scene. “I’ll have Vera ready a tea for you. Basilton, I expect you to make proper introductions and exhibit some manners.” He looks pointedly at my inappropriate dress before dismissing out of the room, content with that moment of parenting. It had to have anguished him as much as it did me.

The library door snicks shut. Penelope shivers dramatically.

“Well done,” I cheer dryly. “That wasn’t suspicious at all.”

She steps on my foot again. “Shouldn't he have been more, I don’t know, aghast to find you in the closet with a girl?”

“Please. He’s thanking every demon and god he knows that he caught me with a girl.” It’s out of my mouth before I can think twice. Whatever. Simon Snow is apparently the Insidious Humdrum. I can be gay. It's twenty-fifteen. People are gay and the Insidious Humdrum now. We're making all kinds of progressive strides.

Bunce purses her lips. “Shall I interpret that how I think I ought to interpret it?”

“Bunce, you can do whatever you want.” I shove her the rest of the way out of the closet. The irony is not lost on me. “I’m going to put on real clothes; we are going to have tea; and then we’re getting out of my house and going somewhere where we can talk without accusations of sexual misconduct.”

My father’s probably on cloud bloody nine.

**Malcolm**

I’m not a fan of Mitali’s politics, but I respect her for the person she is. She’s not a particularly notable mage as far as birth or ancestry goes, but she’s a clever and sensible woman and plenty magically strong. Her husband, besides his raw intellect, stirs nothing of note in my mind. They've spread the magic thin in their family, save for this Penelope, if Basil's testimony is to be believed. (She is, or rather was, Snow's best friend. peculiar that.) I do admire Mitali and Martin's multidimensional marriage vows. I respect loyalty. They’re hardly the family of repute I desired, but at least the Bunce girl is that: a girl. Basil has reported too that she's his competition for first in class. A bit of friendly competition often leads to more amorous connections.

I was beginning to worry, especially in the wake of the Simon Snow matter. It wouldn’t be completely outlandish for Basil to form an attachment to the boy after years of cohabitation, and the…. _mood_ he’s been in has raised my concern. Clearly, it’s been nothing more than the sulk of a boy missing his girlfriend. If only he’d said so and put the rest of us at ease sooner. I don’t know from where he gets all the dramatics.

**Kylie**

Turns out even Speakers can get car sick. All that eggs and bacon make an encore performance on the side of 171. The dude can't catch a break. Lucks on our side; there's a half drunk orange Gatorade rolling around the passenger seat. Simon and I play a round of fire drill and swap seats while tractor trailers fly by and threaten to yank the new piercing out of my nose.

Simon is a deathly silent disaster in the car. Like a fart. Silent and deadly. But Shepard fills up the miles with his endless capacity to talk about everything and nothing.

Like this, with the windows down and the music up, my hair going to hell, it doesn't feel like we've just gotten wrapped up in the next impossible thing. I know we have. Or Shepard has, at least. Once I'm home, I'm walking away from Simon Snow. I'll try to convince Shepard to do the same even though he won't listen to me; we never listen to each other. He never lets his curiosity go. He gets in the hole and keeps digging.

It cost him his soul already. He reasons he doesn't have much else to lose.

Ten years. The demon gave him ten years of invincibility, of a cure-all. He could jump out of a plane and pop off the ground like a pogo stick in the Looney Tunes. He could crawl down to the floor of the ocean if it wouldn't be an endless cycle of drowning and gasping. Ten years before a demon claws him down into Hell or wherever.

I guess it's a fair trade up against dying of Leukemia when he was sixteen.

Lemme fix my math. He's got seven years and change.

Jesus. I don't blame him. I'll have had 10 years to get ready to say goodbye to him. That's way more than most people get. Just wish I didn't have to lie to his mom. Sometimes I think she knows, but people will believe in angels and miracles when they're desperate, even when the room smells like fire and brimstone.

Shepard makes you believe in the impossible. In miracles. He's just that kind of guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> simon sweetie im so sorry. i specifically portal him into southern LA so i could justify feeding him well-seasoned food and then i deny him the chance
> 
> anyway happy sunday morning to yall. <3 i love love love the feedback. im on tumblr at stillmadaboutpetra and want people to geek with about simon snow series (mostly to send memes to)


	7. Nervous

* * *

**Simon**

I’m too nervous to eat after puking up breakfast. I turn down the granola bars later that day. When we stop for gas, Shepard gives me a bright blue slushie. It tastes like the colour blue. I like the taste of blue. Plus, it’s cold. It’s so hot I can’t think. It’s humid. It’s awful. My _ass_ is sweaty. Asses aren't _supposed_ to be sweaty. Shepard says it's called Swamp Ass. Even the wind is hot and humid. I didn’t know wind _could_ be hot and humid. I bet it’s hot enough here that Baz would be warm. Even Baz’s toes would be warm. I saw his toes once and they looked blue, like this slushie. I wanted to cup them in my hands and blow on them to warm them up - the shock of the mental image sent me running. It was a weird mental image.

Shepard talks; Kylie plays music and leans up through the middle seat to keep the conversation going because I’m no help. This should be exciting, but I’m _tired_. I mean, I’m positive I’ve been dead for a few days. I don’t remember anything. It was June third. And now it’s June sixth. I’m tired all through my bones. Without my magic, the emptiness inside me, the unremarkable of me, the lessness of who I am wears me out. I still haven’t let go of the Sword of Mages. I keep nodding off and jerking back awake, afraid that if I fall asleep, my hand will slip. If the Sword vanishes, I won’t have anything. I’ll be a Normal. This is the last bit of proof that I was anything at all.

We stop after hours.

“Where are we?”

“Louisiana.”

“Still?”

It’s been _hours_. Shepard pats my shoulder. He does that. He gives me pats on the shoulder. I don’t mind it. He’s got skinny hands. He’s a skinny boy. Lanky. Baz is all long lines, all legs. On Baz, it looks intentional, like he’s shaped exactly how he’s best suited. It doesn’t look right on Shepard, like he’s not supposed to be so small. He’s my age but he has that pubescent narrowness that the third years have, when they’re between sizes in their uniforms.

Shepard has thin wrists. I keep staring when he’s driving, and whenever he reaches over to give me a pat, like he’s checking to make sure I’m still there. He saw me dead. That’s what he said. That Faroque had to spell me awake. I bet that was weird. But his wrists - I think I could wrap one hand around both of them. Now that I think about it, I could wrap my hands around Baz’s wrist too. If I did that, if I pinned him, he couldn’t get his wand to cast any spells. Except then I’d be close to his face and he could bite me. Fuck, that’s what we’d been doing before the Humdrum had taken us. Following Baz. He’d been holding Agatha’s hand in the woods. Both hands.

Hmm. Agatha’s got slender wrists, but her forearms are really strong; she can flex them properly. She’s fit all over.

Does she miss me?

This is the first I’ve thought of her. I try not to think about her. (Shouldn’t it be harder?)

I hope she’s okay. I hope everyone’s okay. Everyone will be okay, now that the Humdrum’s gone. Now that I’m gone.

Except the War. The Mage always said he couldn’t focus on The Humdrum because the Old Families were breathing down his neck and threatening to revolt against the decrees of the Coven he pushed. Penny said the only reason he held any power was because of me and the Humdrum. That my prophetic fulfillment maintained order.

Baz said something like that too. That I was a convenience. That I was a bomb The Mage could threaten everyone with. Fuck Baz. Where the hell is he? Probably lounging in his private pool; probably trying to kiss my girlfriend. I should have let the Humdrum take _his_ magic. (That's not right. Baz is too good of a mage. Baz and magic belong in the same breath. Baz and the gunpowder of his magic is half the air I breathe.)

If Agatha thinks I’m dead, I don’t think I’m her boyfriend anymore. She’s a widower or something. Is that what happens? We were supposed to get married. Can you widow a concept?

Shit. She was gonna break up with me. She kept doing this thing where she’d say my name, _Simon_ … and trail off, and not in a smitten way. I didn’t make her happy. I tried. I wanted to make her happy. I would have tried for the rest of my life. Penny says my stubbornness is a great quality. She also says I'm loyal to a fault. I don't see how being loyal can ever be a bad thing.

I wish I could talk to Penny. I don’t know how I can talk to her. I don’t know her number. I don’t know anyone’s number. I couldn’t get to Watford if I wanted; I don’t have any money on me, not more than fifty American dollars. (I don’t have my wand but that doesn’t matter.) I think the dollar’s weak or something. So what, I have ten pounds? I could make an international call if I knew anyone’s number.

I should have stayed with the other mage even though he made it clear he wasn't interested in me. How can you just abandon the person you resurrected? (I don't blame him.) He might say that American mages aren’t connected to each other, but surely there’s a network of some kind. Micah came to Watford.

I could find Micah!

“How far away is Chicago?” I blurt loudly.

Shepard and Kylie startle out of their conversation. I’ve barely talked all day and now I’m shouting.

“Uh, Kylie?” Shepard asks, tossing back his phone that has the GPS on it, the cord disconnecting. I twist in my seat to watch Kylie tap on the screen.

“From here, fourteen hours.”

“I know a mage there,” I tell them.

“Hey, cool!” Shepard enthuses, properly appreciative. Kylie gives me a look.

“Who?”

“This guy. My friend’s boyfriend. His name is Micah.”

“Micah…?”

Uh. Oh man. Penny would be so disappointed in me right now.

“C-cuh-calzone?”

“That’s not a name. Where in Chicago?”

I shrug.

“Do you have a number?”

I shrug again.

“Yeah, we’re not going to Chicago.” She leans forward to plug the phone back into the charging cable and affix it to the display frame for Shepard. “We are going to pop around Arkansas and go on the hike Shepard promised me, and then we’re going back to Omaha because some of us have summer internships to start.”

She flicks Shepard on the ear.

“Driving here!” he sings, flailing a hand blindly behind himself to smack at her. “Hey, Simon. Kylie’s right. We can’t just run off to Chicago without a clue. Kylie does have to get back home in a timely fashion, but after that, we can figure it out, okay?”

Shepard takes his eyes off the road long enough to give me a reassuring smile. If I still had my magic, I could make this car fly down these roads. Now all I can do is watch the miles blur through the window.

**Penelope**

After the weirdest tea of my life, we leave the Hampshire manor. Baz insists on driving us in his father’s Jaguar; he’s all done up in white linen pants and a flowery patterned silk dress top with a big hat and sunglasses. He looks ridiculous. He looks like someone’s divorced aunt.

“I burn easily,” he snarls at me when I start laughing.

“Want to admit you’re a vampire now that I know you’re gay?”

Baz bares his (fangless) teeth at me.

I hop into the passenger side while Baz stands there, tapping his foot as the top goes down. I’m not going to say no to a ride in a Jaguar. I don’t care about cars, they don’t mean anything, but I can appreciate an opportunity when I see one. The leather squeaks under my thighs and ugh, nevermind. I’m going to stick and burn. Summer heat is the enemy of fat thighs and doubly so when combined with leather.

“Give me your hat,” I say, holding out my hand. “It’ll fly away.”

I think he’s glaring at me from behind his sunglasses but I can’t see to confirm. I know he could spell it to his head with a **“Stay Put”** like we learned when we were younger, but now it's just a waste of magic. He gives me the hat. I want to wear it (badly) but I resist the compulsion, instead pressing it to my lap. Simon would lose his mind to see this. Baz is definitely glaring at me, but for the first time in days, I’m laughing. I think his lips twitch.

“Buckle up, Bunce.”

The engine roars. Show off.

I try to talk as he drives, but the wind drowns me out. He’s taking us well away from the Manor. Vera, his family’s maid (?) packed us a picnic. Apparently, I’m on a date with the young master Basilton Grimm-Pitch. When I see Simon again, this is absolutely the first thing I’m telling him.  
After I tell him he’s an idiot and to never leave me again.

I’m going to find Simon Snow and then hide him all over again. This world wants to eat him.

Simon is right though. Baz is paranoid and plotty. He takes us out to a picturesque field and carries the picnic basket. (The Simon-voice in my head is shouting at me for going into a lovely field to be eaten by a vampire.) I wish we could have stayed in his library. I want to look through his books. It’s fine. I have a few spelled small in my bag that we can go through. I grabbed what I could from my house this morning; Agatha had been my first stop. Proximity and loyalty and all. So much for that. (I feel bad.) Baz’s manor is a hike in the woods.

I try not to second guess what I'm doing. Simon doesn’t. Simon bullies on. Simon always gets back up again. (He’s alive he’s alive he’s alive.)

I set out the blanket and the food while he spells a soundproof bubble over us. He has his hat back on. I think only Agatha could appreciate his outfit right now. No wonder his father had been pleased to find us in a closet together. How have I missed this all these years? The inherent homophobia of school uniforms strikes again.

Vera packed strawberries and champagne and little cucumber sandwiches. Simon will ask what we ate when I tell him about this.

“This isn’t a bad first date.”

I can’t see his expression with the sunglasses on, but he pauses slightly in pouring the champagne to give me, what I imagine, is a withering glare.

“Get to the theory-making, Bunce, I can only withstand your overwhelming heterosexuality for so long.”

I take a glass of champagne and dainty sip just to spite him. Too bad we never had Baz on our side all those years; he comes with perks. “Take off your sunglasses.”

“Why?”

“I need them for a demonstration.”

“It’s sunny out.”

He doesn’t have time to react to me holding out my hand. That’s the one benefit of my magical object being a ring and not a wand. People forget about it because it’s a part of me. **“Into thin air.”**

His sunglasses vanish. I was right: he is glaring at me. He squints like a bat into the daylight even with his shady hat on.

“Those were expensive.”

“That’s my theory.”

“That my sunglasses were expensive? Groundbreaking. Bring them back.”

I smile and do so. **“The last place I looked.”** The glasses pop back onto his face, crooked but there. He startles, sloshing champagne over onto his hand. He hisses at me and wipes his hand off on the blanket.

“Are you fucking with me?” he snaps.

I ignore the invitation to snipe. We’ve wasted enough time. “That’s my theory. Tell me: where did the sunglasses go?”

His lips purse in annoyance. “The utilitarian pockets of your shapeless skirt?”

“I’m serious, Baz.”

“Me too,” he mutters under his breath. But he squirms around and readjusts on the blanket, getting more comfortable. He settles into the moment. “I don’t know, the Bermuda Triangle? No one knows where objects go when someone ‘into thin air’s them. It's built into the concept.”

“Yes, right, but they have to go _somewhere_.”

“The Bermuda Triangle.”

“Your sunglasses did not go to the Bermuda Triangle.”

“How do you know? Were you there?”

“I’m serious!”

His lips twitch again. He’s enjoying this. Against my will, I am too. I’m annoyed, but it’s refreshing. We hover in the awkwardness of pleasure breaking through the weight of days of grief. My mouth grows guilty with the beginning of a smile. It all lasts too long. Baz looks away and takes a pointed sip of his champagne, making a ‘do go on’ gesture with his hand. I eat a strawberry to give myself a moment. I don't want to flub like with Agatha.

“Where do objects go when we magic them away?”

“In general, or specifically from the magic of ‘into thin air’? That spell only works because we’ve reached a collective cultural consensus on the meaning of the phrase. Its irrationality causes a rational dematerialization of objects.”

I nod along, excitement bobbing my head. “Exactly. They’re magically transmuted within the perception of reality.”

“Yes. It’s basic Magical Theory, Bunce. What’s your point?”

“Right, so,” I cross my legs and press my skirt down between them so I don’t damage Baz’s gay psyche. Baz is gay! The more you know….well, honestly, it adds up. I don’t have time for Baz’s sexuality. I put a pin in the thought; I’ve better things to think about. (But go figure!) “When I return the glasses with a counter spell, are they the same glasses as before? If they dematerialized, did I re-materialize them with the same matter or create new matter?”

“You can’t create matter, only convert it.” Baz is listening to me, head cocked, the tension in his mouth no longer that from annoyance but from curiosity. “And you wouldn’t be able to recreate the glasses. You don’t know enough about them.”

“Exactly. And ‘the last place I looked’ would only work to bring them back if you or I cast them because we two know where they were exactly in place and time to recall the object.”

The relationship between the caster and the object matters, and I'm fixated on it. It’s a simple combination of spells but both require a fair bit of magic to use them. I can’t use the spell on organic material and not really on anything more than a few grams in weight. I couldn’t use it on a pile of feathers either; too many little bits.

I’ve worked myself up, and I know I’m talking a bit more frantically. “Now think about ‘clean as a whistle.’ Handy but only good for the big stuff. If I’m covered in dirt, and you clean me up with that spell, the dirt doesn’t _vanish_ , you’ve just collected it. You need to put it somewhere right then and now.”

Baz nods. “And it only works on the dirt I can see. I can’t perceive microscopic debris or germs. You’re still dirty beneath it.”

“And you couldn’t ‘into thin air’ a bunch of dirt. It’s too - it’s too much to deal with. The spell goes haywire.”

“Magic’s only as good as the conceptualization,” Baz nods again. “A child who’s never seen Ali in the ring can’t cast ‘float like a butterfly,’ even if they know what a butterfly is. It requires finesse.”

That’s a weird spell to use for an example.

“Exactly. So let’s posit ‘clean as a whistle’ and ‘into thin air’ as two ends to a spectrum of magical removal. They’re object-removing spells. With ‘clean as a whistle’ we remove the object in question with magic like a physical extension of our hands. With ‘into thin air’, magic itself seems to remove the object from perceivable reality. I don’t know where your glasses went, but my perception and knowledge could recall them from that space.”

“Like The Sword of Mages,” Baz says, sitting up a little. He’s brilliant. That’s always been the worst bit about Baz, that he really is clever. He doesn’t need his family’s connections to dominate the world because his brain does it for him. But right now, it’s the best thing about him.

“Yes! Yes, but - give me a moment.” I take another sip of champagne to wet my mouth and he copies me, nodding slightly to encourage me to go on. “The Humdrum teleported Simon and I-”

“The Humdrum _is_ Snow-”

“One thing at a time-”

“Talk faster, Bunce.”

“The Humdrum teleported Simon and I - and yes, I know teleportation like that isn’t possible. But it happened. I have to wonder, if the Humdrum _is_ Simon, or something like Simon, has power like Simon, if it ‘into thin air’d us and used a different spell to bring us into Lancashire. Because me making your glasses vanish to who knows where and come back to us is teleportation.”

“You’re people, though, complex and very organic. I know you are at the very least. Snow is Snow.”

“Simon’s people.”

“I remain unconvinced.”

There’s a funny edge to his words. If Simon were here, he’d be smoking and working into an offended fit. He’d think Baz was being mean with his words. But it doesn’t… _sound_ mean. Not really. A soft and faintly awed note enters his voice when he mentions Simon.

Merlin and Morgana, I don’t have time for this.

“I’ve been thinking about the teleportation. I mean - teleportation! And echoes.” My scream left behind in Lancashire. If I was screaming, I left behind sound waves; my scream went on even when I wasn’t there to scream anymore. It echoed. But an echo runs out. Does the source run out too? Or the Humdrum. Simon’s shadow. An afterimage. But when you step onto your shadow, you don’t disappear. You join. And the shadow exists; it waits; a change of light, a change of shape, and there it is.

My mind’s a theoretical hellscape. Ever since The Mage failed to conjure the Sword, my thoughts have been racing overtop themselves, tangled and messy. I can hardly think straight. I’ve taken to talking to myself in my room working out the problem, but I’ve never had to work out such a big problem by myself before. Simon doesn’t think things through, he acts on instinct. I don’t get it, but I’m trying to do both of our jobs right now. I’ve never had to do any of this on my own before. I’ve never been alone before. In the house, I have my siblings. At school, I have Trixie (whether I want her or not), and I always had Simon.

I know what I saw on Baz’s face at the memorial. And my gut keeps turning me to him for help. I need someone’s help. I need someone to believe me because I feel crazy; not just with the theories but I feel crazy that I think Simon is alive. That I’m not ready to roll over and accept that my best friend is dead. I categorically refuse to accept that version of reality.

**Baz**

Bunce has lost her mind, but I think I’m losing mine too. I’ll drink from the well of madness. It tastes like a dry brut.

**Penelope**

“Teleportation in any capacity raises a number of issues,” I go on, trying to sound vaguely sane. I feel like I’m monologuing from the script of that terrible Normal movie, Back to the Future. “Is it instant, for one? When the Humdrum brought us to Lancashire, did we lose time? And if we lost time, where did we lose it?”

“I assume you tested this theory of yours on a watch,” Baz says immediately. He’s perfectly on pace.

“I did. I tried the ‘into thin air’ and ‘last place I looked’ but they break. Digital and analog watches. I ran out of watches.” I give him a pointed look.

He shoves his watch-wearing wrist under his thigh. “You’re not experimenting on my watch.”

“It’s for science and magic. And Simon!”

He sneers. “I’ll buy you a cheap watch to maim. Leave my heirlooms out of it. Now keep talking. Go back to the bit about _where_ you could lose time. I’m sensing we’re able to reach the horizon.”

Most people tell me to be quiet by now; they get tired of me talking and explaining. Baz is remarkably focused on what I’m saying.

“Baz, we now live in a world where teleportation happened. Heretofore yet impossible teleportation, now possible. It might never happen again, but it happened. Reality as we know it has shifted. Fantastic. But, mostly, I’m trying to puzzle out the where of it all. Where did your sunglasses go? Where did we go in the moment of being at Watford and the moment of being in Lancashire, and most importantly, where does the Sword of Mages go when not in use?”

“I like to think it goes right up The Mage’s arse.”

“Me too,” I say, caught up, not thinking. Baz _grins_. It's creepy. His pesky eyebrow rises in salutation to the concept. Simon is obsessed with Baz’s eyebrow.

Baz surprises me by moving on from the opportunity to rip into The Mage. “The Sword of Mage’s summoning incantation was the first spell Snow learned. He almost stabbed my eye out in our bedroom showing me.” He looks down at his glass, tension pulling at his mouth. “He was so proud that he could do it.”

Oh Simon.

“It was the first time he felt like a proper mage,” I whisper. Simon said so himself. I wish the magic that had made Simon finally feel like he belonged wasn’t the ability to conjure a weapon. I wish that everything that makes him a Mage isn't steeped in violence.

**Baz**

He’d raced back to our room to show me. Even though I wasn’t nice to him, he still wanted to show me. I told him… I told him he’d probably trip and stab himself on it. He told me I was jealous. I was. Then, I was. I’m proud now. And sorry.

Simon Snow, you're always doing the most ridiculous impossible thing and it's glorious. You're so glorious and you're a blind idiot for not seeing your worth. And I'm sorry I never told you.

**Penelope**

“The important thing is, Simon had the Sword of Mages when he vanished. The Mage couldn’t conjure it. And I think,” now here’s where it gets really hairy, “I think he can’t conjure it because Simon still has the Sword. If he was dead, he wouldn't have the Sword, so The Mage could conjure it. Ergo, he is not dead because The Mage cannot conjure it. Simon isn’t dead.”

I’ve rushed it all out. I don’t think I’ve done a good job of it either. I hold my breath. Baz removes his sunglasses after a minute and rubs his hand into his eyes, covering his face.

“That’s it?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “That’s your theory? Bunce!” He throws down his sunglasses, fury writ across his face. “What kind of half-assed postulate is that? You made me actually believe that Simon could still be alive.”

“I-”

“Why the hell did you come to me to begin with?” Baz stands up in a huff, out of breath from nothing, working himself up. I’ve never seen him so disheveled. He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head morosely. He stares down at me, disappointed, sneering, wet-eyed. “I was coping fine thinking Simon was dead; I didn’t need you to bring me this idiocy-”

“It’s not idiocy!” I’m on my feet now too, squaring off against him. “There’s a lot of maybes and what-ifs, but I know I’m onto something.”

“You’re on your way to the asylum is what you are.”

“You weren’t there. You didn’t watch him disappear!” He’s not dead. He’s not dead. I tremble with it. I will not cry. I will not scream. I will be brilliant. “Simon is alive. I believe that. And if I’m wrong - if I’m wrong - I won’t be wrong.”

Baz gapes at me, his face gone slack in shock. Good. He needs to get over it now. “You’re mad,” he insists.

“And you’re in love with Simon.”

It’s a complete shot in the dark (I’ve only just started rolling the possibility around in my head this morning.) (although I have casually entertained it for both of them. I mean the obsession they have with each other, really…) It’s a shot in the dark, one he can rebuff; he already thinks I’m mad; I’m allowed to make wild guesses. But it lands true. The words find their mark. Baz flinches. Triumph floods me: I’m right! I’m right. I’m right about this and I can be right about Simon being alive. Simon says I'm brilliant.

Baz looks away, jaw clenched, wrapping his arms around himself. He holds himself with a cut of the summer sky behind him, wearing a ridiculous woman’s sun hat. The triumph runs a swift course through me. Baz hugs himself, squeezing himself so tight that the fabric of his shirt pulls and strains, his fingers twisting into the silk, mangling the flowers, unblossoming them.

If it’s true, then no one knows. If it’s true, then he’s not allowed to be sad. If it's true, he's not allowed to grieve. No one is treating him gently while he mourns the boy he loves. I can’t imagine a greater loneliness than that.

“Baz.”

He flicks his stormy eyes to me, suspicious, angry. Hurt. I hurt too.

“Baz, please. I know it sounds far-fetched, but hear me out.”

“Why isn’t Wellbelove helping you?” he asks, throwing me for a loop. He’s calming down by the second, putting his walls back up. It was a lucky shot. He won’t let me do it again. He won’t let me hurt him again.

“Agatha…Agatha says I’m in denial. That I need to accept what’s happened and process it.”

“That sounds incredibly reasonable and healthy. Have you thought of that? I hear it comes highly recommended.”

“I haven’t exhausted the alternative options yet,” I answer, sitting back down. He watches me warily. “Tell me, Baz. Are you ready to accept a world without Simon? I’m not.”

“My life is easier if he's dead.” He stands above me for a long time, a shadow cast over his face.

“Easier doesn't mean better.” My hands shake as I eat a strawberry. I can barely swallow it for how hard my heart’s beating. If he’s a vampire, he can surely count each desperate thud.

It takes everything in me to stay calm when he sits back down on the blanket, putting his sunglasses primly back on his long nose. “If we find the Sword of Mages, we find Snow?”

He called him Simon before.

“That’s the crux of it. Wherever the Sword of Mages is, Simon is. As long as he has it, we can find him.”

**Simon**

I have to let go of the Sword.


	8. Let go

**Simon**

I have to let go of the Sword of Mages, or I will poop my pants. They’re my only pants, so that’s not an option. We’re in a motel in Arkansas after a full day of driving. There’s loads more driving ahead of us before we get to Nebraska. I don’t know what a Nebraska is. I don’t know what an Arkansas is. I’ve also recently learned that I do not know how to spell Arkansas, which really iced the cake that is my life. But most importantly, I’ve been holding this sword for an entire day and I’ve really got to use the toilet and I’m facing the reality of the situation: I have to let go of the Sword.

**Kylie**

Simon looks constipated. Or like he’s about to rip one and burst a blood vessel. I already watched this guy hurl all over the highway. That's not that bad considering I made it through my first year of college but if I see this kid shit himself…. That level of intimacy is soul-bonding.

**Simon**

“Simon,” Shepard says from the queen mattress he’s going to share with Kylie. “You can do it buddy. I believe in you.”

(I like Shepard. He calls me things like Buddy and My Friend and My Guy. He reminds me of Penny. She saw me in need and offered a hand. If Shepard reminds me of Penny, then I know he's a good person.)

I don’t know what I’m more scared of: the Sword vanishing, or me vanishing. I feel connected to it, like it’s an extension of my body. My hand should have cramped up by now but my grip’s steady. Maybe I can’t open my hand. Maybe we fused together when whatever happened with the Humdrum and the portal thing. Maybe I’ll have to chew through my wrist like a fox in a trap.

“Can you guys, uh, can you, can you look away?” I mumble, flushed with embarrassment. I don’t want them to see. What if I do vanish? I don’t want them to see that. They shouldn’t have to see that. What if I drop dead…

They flop face down in the bed, burying their faces in the crinkly pillows. It’s not a nice motel, but I’m the least picky person ever.

I start with my pinky, and then the next finger, then the next, until only my thumb and forefinger wrap around the hilt. I’m on the bed, the sword across my lap. I open my thumb and let my fingertip rest on the hilt. (I don’t notice that I’m holding my breath.) Fast, like ripping off a band-aid, I jerk my hand away. Nothing happens. Hesitantly, I lift the Sword and lay it beside my on the bed, completely away from my person. Nothing happens.

“Are you alive?” Shepard asks muffled into the pillow.

“Y-yeah.”

“Can we look?”

I nod before realizing they can’t hear me. “Sure.”

They look. After a beat, I give them a thumbs up. Kylie gives me two thumbs up and a grin. Shepard slow claps. “Good job.”

“I’m -” I jerk a thumb at the toilet before dashing for it.

“Don’t fall in!” Kylie shouts as I slam and lock the door.

**Shepard**

The one irrefutable solid of the whole “a demon owns my soul” thing is the guiltless bliss of McDonald’s hashbrowns. The Sword is in the trunk finally (although every rest stop Simon has to check on it.) We’re in a greasy haze from breakfast. Simon’s talking! Full sentences! Say what you want about the empire of fast food that is McDonald's, but it has curing powers.

(Simon loves food and I feel like we've done him an honest to god criminal disservice removing him from Louisiana without a proper culinary tour. Shit, me and Kylie barely got to eat anything. I'm calling party-foul on that whole part of the trip. For a million reasons.)

I saw Simon Snow real life Magic Pixie Dream Girl dead; hearing him talk is a relief I didn’t know I needed. I asked about a million questions yesterday, but I don’t think he heard any of them. But with every hour that he stays put on this plane of reality, and his Sword doesn’t dissolve into pixie dust, he opens up.

I made a joke and he got all huffy about it. Pixies are real. He knows one! The dust happens when they’re excited (aka horny.) This information has revolutionized the meaning of “glitter is the herpes of craft supplies.”

Simon’s life stays weird. He starts from the beginning, and this time, it’s not the Sparknotes version of his life that he gave us in Mittens’ house. He goes year by year, after he discovers magic. His Capital-M Magic. He neatly glosses over his limited childhood memory of being in care homes. At the first gas station, Kylie asks me if I’ve ever heard of any magical therapists. She said it could be a good career option for my nosy ass.

I'll always pretend to entertain these topics but we both know I won't live to see the other side of a doctor dissertation.

We hit up a Goodwill before getting to the trail head up in Buffalo National River. Kylie wanted to go further up the Ozarks, but I think we could use communion time with Mother Nature sooner rather than later. Simon needs to buy some clean clothes of both the external and intimate variety, and I'm banking on this Goodwill to have packaged wholesale knockoff Hanes. That much Swamp Ass will cause molding.

“This T-shirt is perfect for you, Simon,” Kylie yells from across the store. She’s in the women’s section. This does not deter her. Simon doesn’t notice it’s the women’s section because from his side of the floor, he’s stuck reading the Spanish labels and must think mujer is another word for shirts. Damn, the monolingual is strong in this one. You'd think all the rhinestone bedazzled blazers Kylie’s been modeling would have tipped him off.

The shirt in question is a big black v-neck that has vampire fangs on it and “bite me” written in red dripping-blood font.

The cross Simon has been sucking on like he's a laboratory marmoset desperate for stimulation falls from his mouth when he scrunches his face up. “What?”

Kylie waves the shirt in his face. “Because of your boyfriend. Baz.” She looks around and whispers dramatically. “Because he's a vampire?”

If it’s possible to blush and go pale at the same time, that’s what happens. Simon snatches the shirt from her, sputtering. “Baz isn’t - Baz is - why do you think he’s - boyfriend?!”

People in the store turn to stare at him. Simon Snow does not give a fuck.

“Baz. Basilton. Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, roommate, vampire, the smartest bloke in school, with silky black hair? Ruthless at soccer?” Kylie repeats. “You’ve talked about him all day. Your boyfriend.”

Simon’s face continues to both abort blood and surge with blood. That has to be some kind of foreplay for his vampire boyfriend. A sexy game of blood vessel whack-a-mole.

“Baz is my _nemesis_ ,” he hisses.

“This like, a Britishism? Like chips are fries are biscuits are cookies and nemesis are homo-boyfriends?”

Simon sputters and shakes his head violently, curls flopping.

“Oh my god?” Kylie looks at me desperately. “Oh my god, Shep. Please rescue me from this moment of repressed sexuality. My bi-ass cannot not take your boy.”

“He’s not my boy,” I groan, already giving up on the moment.

“Tell this man he’s got it for his nemesis.”

“I have a girlfriend. Agatha.” Simon pouts at us. “I know I said I have a girlfriend.”

“Who?” Kylie asks dramatically. “Agamemnon?”

“A-ga-tha,” he over-enunciates, missing Kylie’s joke. “I told the story about rescuing her from a well, didn’t I?” He looks genuinely confused. “I mean, she must think I’m dead now. I don’t think you can still be boyfriend and girlfriend if one of you is presumed dead.”

“The level of,” Kylie gestures at him, head to toe, “beautiful mess that you are. Amazing. Delicious. Horrifying. It completes me.”

“Simon,” I say gently. I touch his elbow. He lets me. He bats his big blue eyes at me like a hopeless puppy. He's Lassie saving kids from wells. He's a mess. “Buy the shirt so we can go, _please_.”

A crisis of sexuality is better had while hiking in beautiful woods and splashing in big national rivers. Not in Goodwills. Simon buys the shirt along with his other necessary bits. He folds up his remaining bills and tucks them away neatly in his dress pants pocket. When I glance in the rearview at Kylie, she mouths ‘gay’ dramatically and points at Simon.

**Kylie**

Shepard promised me ghosts, cajun food, and picturesque sights. I wish we’d gone down to New Orleans, but even Lake Charles had good gumbo and crawfish from what I could tell. Check that off the bucket list. Ghosts and wraiths: check. Possible dimension hopping magical boy? Alright. Picturesque sights? Hello, Arkansas, you hidden gem of a state.

This trip makes me regret taking an internship my first summer of college. Shepard still needs to finish up with school. He says he'll take his GED test this summer. I don't think it matters to him though; why waste time in school when time’s running out? I made the case for University of Nebraska-Lincoln; there’s tons of scholarships available and research grants, even for underclassmen. That’s what I’m doing; working with a few fellows under my first term lab professor on local ecology research. If I wasn’t doing that, I’d keep Shepard with me, and his new magical artifact of a friend, and we’d drive all over this damn country.

I’d suggested it, turning down the fellowship, but Shepard told me if I did he’d ignore me all summer if I tried that. I don’t know what’s more selfish of me: wanting to keep my life moving towards the future, knowing his is ticking away, or wanting to spend the next few years with him and deny the inevitable. It's like he didn't even get better.

Jesus Christ, this shit makes me so mad. I wish he hadn’t told me. I wish I didn’t know.

Simon Snow takes off his shirt to change, and I hear Shepard gasp. I stop taking pictures of the trail head sign and turn around. Simon crumples up the sweat-stained button down in his hand, shoulders hunching awkwardly as if to shield us from the sight of his body. The scars aren't horrific, they’re just there. Magically healed but still visible to the naked eye. Pink and white claw marks on his arms and shoulders, his back and his stomach and chest. Bites. A stab wound. What was definitely burns once upon a time.

He said he fought all those monsters. It didn’t seem real until now. He never talked about getting hurt, and when he told the stories, you almost believed he was invincible- he kept getting up, he kept winning. He kept surviving. It let you believe that nothing touched him.

He’d been eleven when it started. No wait. He started throwing fists before that.

Shepard's curse tattoo doesn't look like a wound, but it is.

“Well,” I snap, “You gonna put on your vampire shirt or what? Let’s go, Snow. I want to reach the summit for golden hour.”

Simon’s head jerks up and he stares at me like he’s seeing a ghost before he smiles and tugs the vampire shirt over his head. Oh yeah, that’s definitely a woman’s shirt. He’s finally noticed.

“Why’s it so form fitting?”

“You’re beefy,” Shepard informs cheerfully. “Like a young Burt Lancaster. C’mon, Simon.”

Simon hustles into clean tube socks and the ugly sneakers he found in his size.

Shepard shakes his head at me, a smile softening his face. It’s good I’m here. Shepard couldn’t do this shit without me. He makes a point of knocking his shoulder right into my boob. “Nice recovery,” he mutters gratefully.

I shove him forward into Simon who catches him in a bright flash of reflex.

All those scars from protecting people. Jesus.

**Baz**

Bunce and I have too many hypothetical postulates framing this investigation, each one liable to send us down a brand new rabbit hole of research and premature stress balding. My hairline cannot afford that. I fully understand why she came to me.

Operation Schrodinger's Sword - Plausible theories

  * Simon Snow is alive and well and somewhere on this good green earth of ours with The Sword of Mages  
  

  * Simon Snow is alive in a magical limbo space where magical objects go with The Sword of Mages.  
  

  * Simon Snow is in an alternate dimension and we can’t get him back with The Sword of Mages.  
  

  * Simon Snow is dead and when he died he dissolved the Sword of Mages because everything magic in him and on his person was swallowed by the Humdrum.  
  

  * Any of the above plus the condition that The Mage can’t conjure the Sword regardless of previous use because he’s immoral and unethical swine.  
  

  * It’s all a ruse. The Mage is hiding Simon and/or The Sword of Mages.  
  

  * Simon’s dead. Nothing matters.



We’ve agreed that the Sword of Mages exists. That took the rest of the first afternoon. Sounds simple enough but it was a real back and forth nail-biting debate. Being the vorpal blade from “Jabberwocky,” it possesses its own independence. It existed as a concept before The Mage gave it to Simon Snow, and thus should continue to exist outside of that parameter. (I’m going to focus my eighth year on The Philosophy of Magic, so help me Merlin.) The current focus of today’s research is: did it exist as a physical magical artifact and The Mage discovered it and bound it to the incantation, or did he generate it from scratch with the incantation?

An eleven year old Simon Snow summoning an already existing physical object to his tiny hand with a summoning spell is a lot simpler than an eleven year old Simon Snow having to create a magical mythical object. The simpler theory is often the more accurate one. It stands to reason that The Sword of Mage’s already existed within Magic Limbo or, hell, in some collector's glass case, and could be summoned from that space rather than be generated from scratch. If The Mage is capable of crafting vorpal blades, then the Old Families should be licking his boots and trembling. I don’t much care for that possibility.

We’re at Bunce’s house. As limiting as having to raid my library in advance is, her parent’s library (not terrible) remains the safer location for our research.

Simon Snow might be alive. It's a rumor among the suspicious and paranoid, but it's a rumor to which I don't want my father to think I'm dedicated.

I’d felt like a fool that day Bunce came to me. A fool for how desperate I was to believe, ashamed for how easily she'd caught onto me. I wanted her to have an answer, to have proof, not theories. Now, the possibility of finding Snow is the only thing getting me out of bed. I think the same holds true for Bunce.

She knows. She knows about me. She pities me. I disgust myself.

(When I find Snow, I'm going to kill him for making me like this, so there's no more room for doubt. Drain him and kiss his blood into his mouth and then open my veins over him. It'll be spectacularly dramatic.)

I don’t have time to wallow. We’re pursuing two different lines of research. Bunce continues to attempt to ‘into thin air’ a watch to prove the Limbo dimension (and that she’s a genius,) and I’m attempting to find origins for artifact binding spells.

Thank Crowley Premal’s out of the house this summer, off galavanting with the rest of the Mage’s Men. Her mother’s busy with the Coven most of the day between her professorship; the world’s in turmoil. There’s in-fighting. The Mage has moved on from Snow and is using the leverage of his heir defeating The Insidious Humdrum to power grab and justify more reform. He’s sickening. I stand by the theory that that man can’t conjure the Sword, not after the Sword weighed him against Simon’s righteous heart. A blade knows best the honor of a man.

All the while, here I am, in the dark and muttering to myself. Snow, I don’t know where you are, but I’m going to find you.


	9. Shines Brighter

* * *

* * *

**Simon**

The sun shines brighter in America.

Without my magic, I don’t feel like I’m going to sweat myself out of my skin anymore. I can enjoy summer for the first time; when the sun breaks through the canopy of trees above us, I look at my skin waiting for freckles to bloom. By this time last year, I was already in a care home. Magickless in America doesn’t seem so bad by comparison.

Arkansas’ woods croon to me. The birds sound new in song; the green of a earth sweetens the air. The only woods I’ve ever been in with memorable capacity are the Wavering Woods, but almost never like this, aimless in pursuit of pleasure. Walking to walk and enjoy the walking.

After all the car travel, I need the stretch. I cramped up at first, too tense, but after an hour it all gave over to an absent lightness. The trail incline isn't too bad; there was one narrow bit where we had to basically crawl and pull ourselves up by a tree trunk. I stayed in the back in case one of them needed help. I might not have any magic, but I still need to keep an eye on them. They’re proper Normals. Besides, I know how to take a fall and a hit. I'm well used to getting roughed up. Sometimes it feels good. People don't appreciate the clarity of pain. It grounds you. Makes you feel whole in your body. I only feel right in my body in a fight. I’m at my best when I let instinct take over; my mind empties, my body moves. It’s safe, even if it hurts. It’s simple. You either win or lose.

The sight’s well worth the sweat. We hit the peak of the trail before Kylie’s golden hour (I think Agatha likes golden hour), but she’s still happy, taking a ton of pictures over the edge of a sheer drop. Below, the river stretches, dipped into by swimmers and boaters. A dog and its owner play catch. It’s peaceful. I could watch that kind of peace all day. I don’t know that I’m allowed to have that. Unburdened peace. Easy joy.

I try not to think about that sort of thing, but it’s all I can do right now. Kylie and Shepard aren’t talking for a change. It’s not a hard hike, but I’m always in great shape at the end of the school year. Shepard’s a little short on breath as we go, and Kylie’s face has grown serious in her focus; she’s well lost in thought.

S’pose I am too now. Thinking to myself. There’s way too much going on in my head. Like how come America has a ton of Dead Spots (Shepard calls them Quiet Zones) but the ones we have are a big deal? I mean, it's different. I know it’s different. But the Dead Spots back home don’t seem as dire now that I know Magic isn’t _everywhere_ everywhere. Technically, the magic isn’t going anywhere. It’s been going inside of me. I gave it back; I bet Mr. Bunce is having a field day like someone cast " **a pig in mud"** on him. Or he’s peeved about all the work. Penny might be helping him.

I want to think about Penny. I don’t want to let myself. I want to talk to her so bad. I want to be able to open my eyes and find her with tea and scones and a bright idea. I’d take her lecturing me over my Greek homework.

I hope she’s not crying. I hope Agatha didn’t cry. I hope she moved on. I do. She deserves loads better than me. What could I ever give her? Would I have ever been able to give her anything? It’s been battle after battle. When have I ever taken her for a bloody walk in the woods, free of conflict? I think if I really tried, I could find out how to reach her. I could call the stable she keeps her horses, I remember the name at because every morning over Christmas, I’d go with her to muck the stalls and feed them. That was one thing I liked about her and her horses; she did the stinky parts herself. She didn’t need to, but she did. She’s a bit more honest than people give her credit for. Probably more than I give her credit.

I’m a terrible boyfriend.

I’m the worst Chosen One ever chose. Baz was right.

Normally Baz is safe to think about. It should be easy but now it's not; I keep picturing his face and flicking away from it, like he can see me through my imagination. Kylie’s accusation (accusation!) nags at me: did she really think Baz is my boyfriend, or was she taking the piss? Did I really say his full name? No one calls him Tyrannus. First year, he’d get all huffy and snooty when the professors called him Tyrranus and the rest of us would tease him. Everyone’s supposed to be teased about their names. I called him Tyrannus one time and he never said Simon again. Only Snow.

I wanted to take it back, calling him Tyrannus. Called him Baz after like everyone else, like he wanted, and he still never called me Simon again. Twat. The only people he calls by their first names are Dev and Niall; bet they feel special. I would.

Baz makes you feel special when he looks at you, when he acknowledges you. I feel so noticed when he looks at me; he makes my skin itch, like he’s trying to burn me up with his eyes. I mean, of course he notices me. He wants to kill me. And I’m everything he’s not. He's so...perfect. Except he’s not perfect. He’s a vampire (I know he is) and he’s fucking cold all the time (like a vampire). Pretty sure Agatha thinks he’s dreamy. A lot of girls do. I get it. It’s just they don’t know him like I do. I live with the guy. He hunches over his books like a little gargoyle and he snores. That might be my fault for breaking his nose, but it doesn’t change that he snores. He’s also lactose intolerant. Drank some whippy-cream drink one time and stank the room up so bad he let me keep the window open that night. He was so fucking embarassed, snarling and snapping at me while his stomach cramped up the rest of the night.

I told Penny because how could I not, it was so funny, but that’s it. She’s the only one. Felt like violating the Anathema. (Told her his plot to kill me was farts. She called me juvenile. We were twelve. Farts are funny. Baz farting is extra funny. Except he spelled fart sounds on me in class when he heard me telling Penny about it. We got kicked out and he got all mad for missing the lesson. What a twatty nerd.)

What would he do in this situation? Eat people? Blackmail someone. Call his father. No. No. Baz doesn’t get into these kinds of messes, and if he does, he gets himself out of them all by himself.

Not knowing where he is and what he’s doing bothers me more than it should. Is he flirting with Agatha? Is he plotting? With the Humdrum gone, his family must be readying for War. That's the logical next step. I’m not there to stop Baz. I’m supposed to be there to stop him. To fight him. To keep an eye on him. He’s probably laughing over my grave, if I even have one. Maybe he visits my tomb in the catacombs. I might not have died in Watford like the plague victims or his mom (I felt like a real git after the Catacomb incident. Penny laid into me. I deserved it.), but I think if I got a marker anywhere, it’d be at Watford. Can’t picture myself anywhere else. I died for that school. For the people I met there.

I died, I think, I guess. I died as if magic was what kept me alive. Or maybe I just slipped out of this world. Faroque was trying to summon a ghost, and he got me.

Dying is cold. Or losing all my magic filled me with cold. One or both of those things, it made what was left of me cold; I watched myself go see-through. It took everything I had to send Penny home. To make my mouth move, to make a sound escape me. I hadn’t felt cold like that since the time Baz tricked me out after the drawbridge drew up; so cold that I couldn’t make expressions anymore, like my face was just a mask. Like I wasn't real. Cold all the way through; thinking about my body and not having the power to move it. Numb. I went numb for three days. What is death if not numbness?

I’m glad that I made my last action as a mage protecting Penny. That it didn’t all end in death. That one of us got home safe. That'd be a nice way to be remembered. Keeping someone safe.

**Penelope**

A watch survives.

I casted **“You can’t stop me now”** and **“No harm, no foul”** on it before sending it through with **"into thin air"** and recalling it. It took a box of scrub watches Baz ordered for us before I found the right combination of spells. I recalled it after one minute our time. The watch counted seventeen minutes in the Limbo time.

“Bunce, it worked.” Baz hovers over me. (I’m too focused to appreciate his awe.)

I try again immediately on the same watch (you need to be able to replicate results) and it records five minutes of time passage for our one minute. Baz watches me burn through a third test on a different watch. It records three hours of time passing to our one minute. The inconsistencies open up a hundred new questions, but my magic is used. I’ve spent a whole day casting. I start to puff up to attempt one more time, totally fried, my elation at proving that the watches go somewhere where time passes, prove that they maintain an existence, clouded by the variables piling up. Is this helping? Is this bringing me closer to finding Simon? Every time I think I make progress, the bullet points of endless possibilities fill my vision, multiplying and multiplying.

When I cast **“Into thin air”** on the watch, nothing happens.

“Bunce.”

**“Into thin air!”**

“Bunce.”

**“Into thin fucking air!”**

The watch face cracks down the middle.

I raise my hand again. **“Good as new,”** I whisper. The crack glares up at me.

“Penelope.” Baz touches my casting hand, the frigid tips of his fingers shocking a flinch from me. His touch retreats but he doesn’t step away. “You’re brilliant. But you need to stop.”

“I know.” I do know. Simon already told me I'm brilliant. I know. Baz nods at me awkwardly. It's not his fault that he's not Simon. “Thank you.”

He clears his throat and shrugs. It’s so Simon of him, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing or crying or descending into hysterics.

“You do realize that if you don’t publish these findings, I’ll do it myself and not give you any credit.”

I drop down into the nearest seat, my dad’s favorite squishy armchair. It’s faded pumpkin orange and fuzzy. My mother scoured for this gem of a chair. “No you won’t. You’re too honorable for that.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. I wave him off. Merlin, I can barely lift my arm. Baz eyeballs me; it is unsettling. I don’t need to see fangs and blood drinking to know he’s a vampire. Being so close to him these past few days, it’s become obvious. There’s a distortion to him, a simultaneous overemphasis of movement and a slick shadow to it. He passes through rooms like a cold draft. You wouldn’t notice it, the oddness of him, unless you spent a lot of time alone with him. Like Simon had. The obsession makes sense.

A lot of things make sense now. A lot more things make absolutely no sense.

“Let’s go get a curry from that place down the street,” he suggests as he slots markers into place between the pages of our research and tidies up the table. He's familiar in the space. He's familiar to me now.

My parents don’t know what to think of Baz Pitch in the house. They think I’m nutters. They're (rightfully) worried. I didn’t tell them the truth of what I'm doing with Baz. They think I should be with Agatha - makes sense. Simon’s best friend and his girlfriend mourning together adds up a fair bit more than me going off with the nebulous heir of all things opposed to The Mage and Simon Snow.

Baz mentioned that it makes me look guilty. (“You tell everyone he's dead, and now you and I are best mates. I wouldn't be surprised if my father thinks we've pulled a seven year con on Snow.”)

Let them talk.

Dad tries to do as much research as he can at home in the office these days to keep an eye on me, but he needs to be studying the Dead Spots. The diameter of the last one the Humdrum (Simon) made has already decreased in overall size by a solid inch of its diameter after only 2 weeks. It's good news. But it means Simon's magic has returned to the atmosphere; it's evidence against my hope. Before I went to Baz, I confirmed the theory that Simon had been causing the Dead Spots. All the origin dates match to episodes of his explosive magic. I showed Baz.

_(“That boy is a disaster.”_

_“Why are you smiling?”_

_“Because we match.”)_

If Simon knew Baz Pitch was in love with him, the shock would kill him. It’s enough to make my heart do funny things. Baz is right; they are matching disasters. Worse people could be in love with Simon. Baz is a smarmy bastard, but he’s a great mage, and he’s loyal as a dog. All Pitches are. And Pitches understand romance.

His mother hung the moon.

“I’ll get take away. The same as last time?” He's already holding his phone. I'm moving in slow motion. I'm spent.

We’ve been here before. I nod and Baz nods back like it’s a done deal and there he goes, down my stairwell and out my front door like it’s perfectly normal.

**Baz**

Daphne calls while I’m picking up the food. The overwhelming smell of bubbling masala and the impending feast of chicken salan we’re about to ravage like starved vultures keeps the worst of the street smells at bay. Vampirism in London lacks the glamour Normal movies pretend. Cities are one big olfactory assault.

“Hello, mother.” I don’t mind calling Daphne mother when we speak. She will always be my stepmother, but she’s a loving woman. She raised me long enough. Crowley knows she’s patient with me.

“Hello, Basil, darling. I’m simply calling to see if Vera needs to set out a plate for you tonight. Are you coming home soon?”

The plastic handle of our takeaway bag crinkles in my hand. “No. I’ll be eating at the Bunce’s tonight.” It’s been that way for three days straight.

“That’s fine, darling.” The space hangs for her to say more. “Why don’t you bring her around this weekend, hmm?”

I’ve flirted with plenty of girls in my life. I’ve played the charade; Bunce would probably get a kick out of it if she’s not in the pitying mood. I can see the lie going on for the rest of our lives if not for her little American boyfriend. Forget pursuing Agatha to get under Snow’s skin; I’ll marry his best friend. Bunce and I will make smart little brown babies that grow up to solve world hunger or cure vampirism or whatever the political hot topic is of the age. I'll teach them to say “uncle Snow.”

I keep a deranged laugh out of my voice when I turn down Daphne. Oh these twisted webs we weave. “I’ll see.”

Neither of us wants to stop; we just made a huge breakthrough, not just for us, but all of the Magical community, all of science and humanity. She will publish her findings or I’ll drain her dry and puppet her corpse around to conferences myself. We’re closer to finding Simon. Not close, but closer than we were before. I’ve spent seven years beside Simon and felt like I was miles away from him. This isn’t so different. I can convince myself of this. Nothing has changed.

Obsessing over Simon Snow. Dead or alive, I’m obsessing. Maybe that’s what vampirism means. To be dead and to be alive and to be obsessing. Of that thought, I don't know who Simon is and who I am. Let him be alive, and I’ll take being dead. Between us, obsession. Just let him be alive.


	10. Eureka

**Shepard**

Eureka Springs, Arkansas. The most magical place in America. I’ve no clue about the legitimacy of that claim. It’s a void. I once heard a rumor that faeries live there, but I couldn’t find anything on the topic. The tourism information on the town skips around blandly; the topic boards are suspiciously thin. The place has some good craft beer and very little housing market. A born-and-die kind of town.

I detour us through it. We can skip Kansas sightseeing. I’ve already bet Kylie five bucks Simon will make a Wizard of Oz joke. I hope he does for his sake. He’s funny, but he’s in his head most of the time. Not that I blame him.

I’m stalling a little. Once we get back to Omaha, I’ll have to face my mom. Dad’s working on a rig for the next few months; he’ll come home in July for a week before he goes back. Every mile closer to Omaha is a mile closer to explaining the Simon Snow situation. I don’t know what comes next.

Worry about the here and now, baby!

Eureka Springs!

**Simon**

This town is fucking weird.

Shepard and Kylie don’t know it, but we drove over a magical ward line. I broke out in goosebumps. I was watching Shepard drive again, his hands on the wheel, his forearm tensed as he held the wheel. He got goosebumps too. I twisted so fast in the front seat I hurt myself, but I caught Kylie rubbing her thighs where her skin prickled up. Magical ward.

Someone or something powerful must live here. You don’t need magic to feel a ward line, you just need to know what you’re experiencing.

“Why are we here again?” I ask Shepard, keeping my voice even and casual. I want my sword out of the boot. I think if I wrap it up and strap it to my back, it won’t be so alarming for Normals. I take it out at night. I touch it as often as possible.

“Cuz it looked cool on Google images.” Shepard grins at me, and I don’t want to tell him I’ve got a bad feeling about this place. Penny says I always have bad feelings about everything. In my defense, something bad usually happens. She says past performance does not predict future results. I told her she wasn’t allowed to use math against me.

I’ll just keep an eye on him and Kylie and make sure nothing goes wrong. I don’t want to be difficult. Shepard’s been excited about visiting the town. He suspects there’s faeries. I sure hope not. Faeries are bad news from what I know. Haven’t met one, not trying to meet one.

He is.

But he’s so happy about the idea. Everything in the world excites him; he knows all kinds of weird facts. He talked to me about beavers and possums and rabbits and swore up and down he saw a real jackalope once. It was seven feet tall and had opposable thumbs and wore cargo shorts. I guess if you’re seven feet tall then you’ve got a big wang hanging out and shorts might be for your own good as much as for whatever poor sod sees you.

I keep thanking him for not abandoning me, for feeding me, for reaching over and touching me because everytime he does, I can convince myself a little bit more that my body won’t punish someone just for touching me.

He and Kylie opened up to include me and take care of me and I’m going to take care of them right back. “You are a mystery, my friend, and I love mysteries.”

It didn’t sound bad when he said it like that. I thought it would, that I was just a thing he was curious over, something to explore; that it would sound like how people would talk about me at school. An oddity. Something to be ogled and poked. Something to be wary of. Chosen One. Salvation. The Greatest Mage. Like I wasn’t a person or I wasn’t Simon or I wasn’t anything but what I could do for someone else.

That’s how it felt whenever The Mage talked to me. He gave me all these expectations and then everything ever after was a tightrope walk, or like jumping through hoops to stay fed. Flaming hoops. A tiger in a circus. I had a home on the condition of leaping on command.

I don’t have anything now. I’ve got the sword on my back (metaphorically speaking.)

“You can’t take the sword,” Kylie tells me when she comes up beside me. She leans into the open boot of Shepard’s car, our shoulders touching. Both of them touch me a lot. I’m not used to it. They always do it slowly though; they come up beside me like a horse they’re afraid to spook. (I know about horses and spooking from Agatha.) Agatha held my hand a lot. That was my favorite part of being with her; even though she rode and played lacrosse, she wore gloves for both activities and used lotion every night before bed. The first year over Christmas when I stayed with her, she would sit me down on the couch every night and rub lotion into my hands. We were nervous about kissing. I’d peck her on the lips and that was it. But we held hands.

I don't usually miss her. That’s always been a comfort to me, that I could not miss her. It made summers easier. I miss that though. Her confident touch.

I lean against Kylie a little and she lets me. I feel so fucking needy.

“I know.”

Kylie’s not tall, but she’s older than Shepard and I both. She’s almost twenty, it’s mad. No boyfriend or girlfriend, no long term plans except school. When I told them about how mages back at Watford usually marry whoever they’re dating when they graduate from school, they lost their minds. Kylie joked that they’re not letting me go back.

I don’t know how I feel about it, even now.

She’s giving me that funny look she gets sometimes, where she looks up from under her pierced brows. She doesn’t move her eyebrows like Baz does. She tips her head down and looks up through them. Funny how her looking up like that and Baz looking down his nose gives off the impression that they’re working out all your moving bits.

“I bet a town like this sells sword stuff or something. We could try to find a case. Scabbard? Sheath? I don’t know what swords go in, but we could find one.”

“For thirty-seven dollars?”

She shrugs. “We’ll figure it out, Snow.”

I don’t tell her not to call me Snow. It reminds me of Baz and in that way, I’m reminded of home. Watford. My room. Our room. All of it. All of it at once. I don't think about her joke about never going back. (I especially don't think about Baz never calling me Snow again.)

**Kylie**

Eureka Springs is weird as fuck. All the streets turn into one ways for no reason so thank fuck Shepard isn’t trying to drive. The one ways turn into people’s driveways on tiny crooked hills. The town swims up and down on hills. The buildings climb overtop each other, built on slants, built into the hillside. Tree roots roil and crack the cobblestones, roots from trees that look a thousand years old, that would have been here before the stones or the town, that they shouldn’t have tried to build over. The main building in the town square is long and tall and I don’t think it’s a real shape. We walk all around it and can’t tell what shape it’s supposed to be. It’s supposed to be an inn. It’s dark inside. It’s the middle of the day in summer and it looks abandoned.

Simon’s wired. Shepard keeps wandering away from us, sneaking off into incense-smelling stores selling local crafted goods. Everything is locally crafted. The beer. The clothes. The kitschy tea towels. The women we see are either nineteen or ninety.

We only see women.

An old woman smoking an absurdly long very cool pipe rocking in her chair, dressed in head to toe rainbow ombre watches us come down the narrow hazardous sidewalk cobblestones that give way abruptly to slick moss covered boulders that we have to climb over in the middle of town. Simon stares her down.

I get ready to run because he looks like he’s about to throw hands with grandma. Instead, he takes my hand and Shepard’s hand and drags us away, head turned over his shoulder until we’re out of sight.

“Was that a fairy?” Shepard asks with barely suppressed glee. Simon shakes his head. He lets us go and shrugs.

“Just gave me the creeps,” he mumbles, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck and up through his curls, scrubbing at them. “Gave me a funny feeling.”

Shepard hums; he’s not buying it. “I’m gonna find a bookstore and coffee. Find some souvenirs.”

“I’m going with you,” Simon says automatically. Shepard gives him an easy smile.

**Simon**

There’s a tiny forest of tall thin trees high on a hill across the street from the bookshop. The bookshop takes a staircase down beneath the street. It goes on for ages. I watch the treetops disappear with every step down we take until I’m left with a wedge of sky and a stone wall risen up around me.

We haven’t seen many people since being here. The old lady in rainbow. A pair of butch looking girls at a patio outside a pub. And the stores all have someone working, either an old lady or a girl about Kylie’s age. Everyone stares in this town.

They stare at Shepard as much as they stare at me. I don’t like how they look at him. How they look at me is familiar. Like we don’t belong. They don’t seem to notice Kylie. No one’s eyes follow her. I’m trying to think of girl-creatures, but all these people look human.

“Hello,” Shepard calls out when we go inside, a tangle of bells jingling with the door. It’s a bookstore, but as Shepard predicted, it smells like coffee. Coffee and dust. And a dirt smell beneath that, a tepid smell. I know why we had to go down all those stairs. The bookshelves are proper tall. There’s a ladder! Shepard’s practically wiggling with excitement. He marches forward and turns a corner around a bookcase.

I follow him into the shop of corridors stretching higher. Shepard’s not around the next corner and the spines of books grow to spires. The next turn empties out to square solace and lonely dust, an unset table an unsat chair, framed in pages unread and words unsaid.

“Shepard?”

Shelf and shelf rise unreaching, my gaze travelling and beseeching. How tall they grow, this silent wood, how tall the ceiling; how loud my voice, my next call screeching. “Shepard?”

Three more turns, each winding fast; three more turns, now Kylie miscast.

“Kylie?”

My jaw pops. My breath heaves. The shop dizzies around me. Another corner, one last look, before I go - off the ringing bells they toll, the ringing door in my ear. It smells like a grave in here. The door well gone opens and closes, and the bells ring on in maddening discord. “Shep!”

If I still had magic, I’d be smoking like a chimney. The pages would catch flame around me. I’m dead again, I’m thin all the way through.

“Shepard!” I shout one last time. I’ll push over the bookcases. I’ll trash this place.

“Simon?” Shepard pokes his head around the corner of a shelf. He’s got a coffee in a little paper cup and a paper bag. “You good?”

When I turn around, Kylie’s slouched against a shelf, flipping through a book. They’re fine. Kylie’s bobbing her head to the music playing in the store. I didn’t hear it before. Was I even shouting? I can see the girl at the counter wiping down a big silver espresso machine. Past the bookcases, I can see the pale crescent of the half moon of glass from the front door. I jerk my thumb at it, trying to keep breathing normally.

“Y-yeah. Yeah. I’m just gonna catch some air. The dust is...getting to me.”

My chest moves, but I don’t think I’m breathing. I don’t wait for his nod before shoving out past the bookcases. I can see the ceiling. It’s not that tall.

I take the stairs two at a time, rushing back up onto the street. The trees across from me rise for miles, as straight and dark as matchsticks. I’m flushed with goosebumps. I don’t think. I bolt for the trees, for the rising hill. There’s more stairs but it’s not a real staircase, it’s just footmarks honed into the rockface that climbs up to the trees, like a thousand years of people climbing this point have worn down the earth. This is a magical creature’s space.

My legs burn fiercely when I reach the plateau. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck’s standing up in salute to the bad feeling rolling in my gut.

I’m glad I’m alone so no one can see the shame on my face when I get halfway through the spell for the Sword of Mages before I remember that I can’t do that anymore. The words fall apart on my lips. It doesn’t stop me from inching forward through the bracket of trunks until I step into a clearing. There’s no noise here. No birdsong, no car sounds, no air moving.

A circle of tiny toadstools rings around a puddle no bigger than a dinner plate sitting deep and beckoning in the middle of the clearing.

It’s a fairy ring. Yes. Definitely. But it’s a fairy ring around still water. It’s a scrying pool. Thank you, Penelope Bunce, for talking my ear off about everything under the sun. Scrying pools are the naturally occurring environmental side effect of faerie rings that form around a body of water. There’s a scrying pool in Iceland that’s a huge poisonously hot spring surrounded by a permanent ring of cairne. No one can use the pool there to scry, but it’s a notable geographical location on any mage’s map.

I could stick my foot in this here puddle and get into loads of stupid trouble. Or, being of some good sense, I can get on my hands and knees and peer over the ring and scry to still water of great depth.

Being of some good sense, I choose the latter option. I seek still water and great depth. I seek an answer for voice and sight.

I face my reflection, the summer sky gone from blue to gray above me, the treetops bowed over in cavernous seclusion. What depth and what truth lay beneath the surface. You can’t control the scrying pool in any direct way; it calls to who you need to hear. It makes the decision for you.

I want to see Penny. It shows me The Mage.

I see the underside of his chin, the caterpillar rise of his mustache. From what angle do I peer, in portal promise and whispers dear?

“Sir?” I call, my voice rising miles and miles away, from the black of an inkwell by his rapping hand.

I see him startle, I see his fear, before he looks down and grows near.

“Simon? Is that you boy?”

I am seen, I am heard. I am not alone. “Yes! Mr. Mage.” A name foreign on my tongue.

“Simon, where have you been? Did you defeat the Humdrum?”

“I- yes. Yes, sir. I did-”

“I didn’t think you’d be capable of it. You’ve...truly completed the prophecy.” He smiles sternly. The words sound far away. I don’t know how long this connection will last.

“Sir, I’m in America.”

“America? Degenerates and deployable, all of them.”

“Sir. I don’t know how to get home. I don’t have any magic.”

His eye vanishes from me, and I think the scrying ruined, before he appears to me again, his whole face this time, warped slightly.

“Simon. You’ve done what you were created for. That's been your path.”

“Yes but-”

“It’s not safe here, Simon. The Old Families are making moves.”

“Sir - please,-”

“I’ll fetch you when I can. Stay out of sight. Stay sharp. Keep your wits about you.”

I see his hand. The ink pours out. The magic dashes to nothing. I return to the wet puddle of my reflection.

**The mage**

He’s alive.


	11. After Eureka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it is ur thing, merry Christmas. Shout out to my many adoptive mothers through the years who took my kicked-out gay ass in! Anyway I'm out here daily crying about snowbaz so if u wanna chat hmu in comments or on tumblr (stillmadaboutpetra) xoxoxo love u all !!

* * *

**  
Shepard**

Simon's different after Eureka Springs. More quiet, more lost. He had a nightmare that night. He won’t say what happened when he left the coffee shop; we found him outside on the curb waiting for us, hunched over himself, face in his hands. He chews his bottom lip raw and then some. He spends all day clenching his jaw and rolls it around when he realizes. He’s in his head, and he’s beside himself with what he’s finding there. I don’t like it. I’ve only known him for a week and it bugs the fuck out of me seeing him torn up like this. I can’t stall anymore.

I drive nonstop up through Kansas until my eyes go grit and Kylie tags herself in. I sleep in the back seat, blue moon overhead, wind whining through the cracks of my car. The walls rattle. I can hear a blade singing in the trunk. Simon did check on it all day.

On the northern edge of Kansas, Kylie stops. It’s past dawn and all the world’s breaking through the sky, like ghosts passing over the veil. Stars and clouds and sun and moon, all at once in a squall pink sky.

“Ky?”

Her teeth flash red in the light.

“Morning, sunshine. God’s smiling on you today.”

Simon taps the passenger side window. He’s smiling too. The world’s flickering on his face. There’s a rope of fire twisting in the field.

It’s an early summer field, stretched out wide as the window shows, cropped by dark shadow-wet trees. It blazes in the middle, smoking black and wicked orange, flames guttering as high as our hips. Turning round in a swan song, the winds and the weather have whipped a skinny twister of orange, fading in and out and gusting back to full breath. It'll die in the same grass that bore it.

Kylie pulls over on the other side of the road, illegal as hell. We might as well be the only people in the world, this long road the only road. It’s dry here, the grass crinkling under us when we pile out of the car to spectate. Simon tucks his knees up under his chin beside me, arms wrapped around his shins, holding himself all together. The fire washes us in heat like a breeze coming off an ocean furnace. Smoke and salt all the same to the senses in the face of awe.

I drop my head on his shoulder to whisper to him.

“I used to chase things like this.”

Simon’s voice cracks with disuse. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Used to take everything I had just to sit in a car, get to where the sky was breaking. Twisters and flash floods and tornadoes. Lightning storms. Anything.”

“You chased storm?”

“Yup. You can follow them. It’s an art and a science.” I draw my knees up to my chest too, drop my chin down in the space between my kneecaps, resting in the tectonic meeting of my limbs. “Makes being a person feel reasonable when you get to watch the sky erupt like that. Your troubles, your pains. Your joys. What is that if not thunder and lighting and rain for hours.”

When I was sick, I needed that untamable greatness. I needed the beautiful and almighty. To watch storms and think about the gods who made them, as unexplainable and vindictive and troubled as the gods who made sickness and plight, and the gods who made heros whole out of all but one tendon. I wanted to hold up a lightning rod. I wanted radioactive venom and the Big Bang and chemical fallout.

Simon’s quiet, letting the fire lick and roar. It’s a sweet fire, as long as it doesn’t spread. Someone will come by to put it out. We breathe through it.

“We don’t have twisters in England.” They don’t have fire dances like this.

“Never seen a tornado?”

“Just in the Wizard of Oz.” His lips start twitching like he’s fighting a sneeze. He tucks his smile into the crook of his arms, looking at me over the muscle of himself, eyes caught up with bronze curls and the cresting sunrise. “We’re in Kansas, Toto.”

Good enough. Kylie owes me five bucks. “You ever watch heat lightning roll your way, Simon?”

“Not sure I ever watched a storm. England’s a lot of drizzle. Long boring days of long boring rain. I think that’s why we’re the way we are. Drizzle.”

I’ve heard that before. England and America could never last. “They come in summer. You see them miles off. Lightning in the sky like gods at war. The clouds dark up high and shaped up clean as a bite out of an apple. You can smell storms, Simon.”

“Smoke off stones. Ozone you can taste. Trees on fire. You go drunk on storms,” he says, surprising me. The words rip from him, bitterly worn, the poesy of them lost to an apathetic redundancy. I’m left staring at the force of his freckled cheek, his snubbed up button nose pointing out towards the field aflame. Simon Snow, where did you come from?

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” He looks at me, smile wan. “I used to be like that. I used to catch with fire.”

**Baz**

I hate Penelope Bunce.

Three days ago, in the middle of eating curry and feeling slight elation over the discovery with the watches, Bunce smacked herself in the face and started to wail with a mouthful of basmati rice. She had, finally, realized that there’s no way to know if the watches were recording one minute or twenty four hours and one minute. If three hours wasn’t simply fifteen hours. And so on.

Together, we’re strong enough to cast an apple away with **“Into thin air”** but we’re never able to bring it back. It’s not exactly reassuring us about the survival rate of organic matter. We spiral out of control, the high of the discovery crashing us back to earth with all the things we don’t know and can’t prove. We try the Sword of Mage’s incantation a hundred times, but neither of us can summon it. I don’t think Bunce thought we could when she suggested it, but it kept us busy for a breath. We wound up buried in her library again, back to researching tracking spells, to Penelope attempting to use spirits to find Simon, to reading “Jabberwocky” hunting for clues about the Swords origins in the off chance that, I don’t fucking know, Simon falls out of the pages, blissfully unaware of the living hell that's taken residence in my chest cavity.

I hate her for doing this to me. For giving me hope and dashing it away. My admiration of her wanes quickly as I see the complete lack of a real plan. I’ve slept at her house two nights now, passing out on the lumping chair in the study only to wake up to one of her many little siblings staring at me. Or her mother, who never offers me tea. Or myself, crying my way to reality. Thank every fuck left in the world that my whimpering nightmares didn't wake her.

(They would wake Snow. I'd wake up to him watching me in the dark. The few times he tried to comfort me, I lashed out until he stopped reaching for me. Even a loving dog will learn to cower. I hate myself.)

We smell bad. I’m forced to recognize my own concerning olfactory crimes. **“Clean as a whistle”** and **“Stop and smell the roses”** doesn’t replace a shower and laundered clothes. My fingers smell like curry and rat blood. London’s been a squeaking feast for me. Last night I bit through a rat’s neck I was so angry. It wasn’t my finest moment. I've taken to casting **“Quiet as a mouse”** on them just for a bit of privacy from their shrieking.

By the time my father calls me, I’m ready for the bloody war to start. He can throw me in the front lines. Anything to end the miserably monotony of _hoping_ and _failing_ that we’ve established.

“Basilton, you are coming home today,” is how my father opens the call.

“Alright,” I breathe, no fight left in me. He’s not expecting the easy acquiesce because I hear him make a little noise, like the next thing he’d been about to stay stuttered on the tip of his tongue.

“Bring the Bunce girl.”

“Must I?”

“Yes. And make sure you return in the Jaguar. You’ve had it long enough.”

Bunce looks like shit. Her purple has turned into a nest of mouse fur with gray grease. When I hang up with my father, she gives me a suspicious look.

“We’re going to my family’s house for dinner tonight.”

She wrinkles her nose. “No offense, but Malcom Grimm-Pitch is not the comforting authority figure I require in my life at the moment.”

“That’s nice for you, but he sounds suspicious. Running around with the Chosen One’s best friend isn’t the best look for me.”

She rolls her eyes, abandoning her pretense of reading. “And as we’ve established, having a Pitch sleepover at my house has my mother up a tree.”

I raise my eyebrow. It’s hardly my problem. She blows out a breath. “Fine. I’m sick of curry anyway.”

“Bunce, are you allowed to get sick of curry?”

She doesn’t find my joke funny judging by the death glare. Good, serves her right for making me suffer.

**Mitali**

The Pitch boy’s finally leaving, thank Freddy Mercury. Not that I'm not relieved Penelope’s coping with someone rather than isolating, but where’s the Wellbelove girl? The Pitch boy’s so greasy he’s begun to stain the upholstery. I’m afraid he’ll spontaneously catch fire.

“We’ll be back later,” Penelope calls as she dashes behind Pitch, out the door with him before I can stop her. At least she’s finally showered.

**Simon**

Cold Beer. In a Wreck? FAITH. The Gentleman’s Darlings. JESUS IS ALIVE. Hay for sale. Antiques - Next Left. GIRLS. This is God’s Country. Ramblin Motel.

I’m glazed, head knocking against the window.

Nebraska! The Good Life.

I screw my eyes shut. Shepard’s whingeing singer’s going on bleakly in this nasal voice, saying real depressing shit. John Darnielle, I don’t know if you’re the worst most saddest person ever or if you’re reading my mind, but shut the fuck up.

Bet Baz knows him. He listens to depressing music. He’d know if there were spells from these songs. If you made spells from these songs, they'd be about how to kill yourself. I really really don't want to think about that.

I try to think about Baz, sans spells. Sounds mental, but thinking about Baz is the safest place I can take my mind. He’s the only thing I ever let myself think about during the summers in care; summertime and Baz go together. I can’t take all this heat without thinking about him. Baz always makes me feel hot. And heat makes me think about Baz. And back and forth in an endless loop. (The cold makes me think about Baz too.)

I think about him plotting. I think about him drunk and sprawled amongst bones in the Catacombs (felt like a prick for chasing him to drink). I think about him dribbling the ball down the pitch, always a little faster than everyone else, never letting himself run too fast. Sharper than everyone. Smoother than everyone. I think about his gray eyes and how he should have set his nose straight when I broke it but there’s that squint bump in it now, the shape of my anger left behind on him. I never know if I hate it or like it, knowing I put it there. Sometimes I want to reach over when he’s asleep and put my thumb right on the bridge of his nose and feel it for myself. The break, the heal. I want to rest my knuckles and see if we still fit together. I think about the places on him that I've never seen and if you can fit into a place you don't know.

I think about how if I touched his face, I wouldn’t stop at his nose. I’d touch the sharp of his cheeks, and I’d put my fingers in his mouth. I’d find his fangs. I’d kiss my thumb to his tongue. I’d pull him apart. I’d open him up to see what he’s made of.

I want him under my hands where I can keep track of him. Where I can catalogue all of him. His beautiful parts, his terrible aparts. I’d like him to fight me like that, from beneath me. He’s tall, but I’m bigger. I’d hold him down. I’d let him hold me down. If we could fight like that, like boys and not like mages, I’d win. I’m just a boy now. He’s still a mage.

I think about him jumping out from behind a tree when the Chimera roared and how he shoved me behind him to cast a barrier that thundered when the Chimera swiped at us. Him yelling at me. Him not running and leaving me there. He didn’t abandon me. Light a match inside your heart, then blow on the tinder.

I found out that day that that’s where Baz’s magic comes from. His heart. I don’t think it’s fair, him being a vampire and all and him having a heart on fire. Bit doomed, really. Fucking tragic of him.

I start to think about what he’d say when he finds out I don’t have magic anymore. Then I stop thinking about that. I doubt we’ll see each other again. Unless he wants to make good on his promise to kill me. He can still kill me. Easy pickings.

It’s not safe for me there, The Mage said. _When_ has it _ever_ been safe? I’m never safe. I’ve never been safe a day in my life. The care homes weren’t safe. Not from the other boys. Not always from some of the adults. Not from the beige and the lonely and the mundanity and the way poverty sat around you like that’s all it’ll ever be. Watford had been home, but it wasn’t safe, not always. Merlin, Morgana and Methusaleh, driving in a bloody car for a week straight isn’t safe!

The whole time, my whole life, I’ve been the greatest threat to mages. I’m not safe. I am not safe. I don’t know how it’s supposed to feel.

Anathema. Anathema. That made me feel safe, the only kind of screwed up safe I could get. Baz and our room and the untouchability of that space. Our space. My space. I’m fucked up. Baz is supposed to be the safe thing I can think about. It’s comforting. Familiar. Is he plotting? Is he planning? Is he playing his violin with his eyes closed?

Are the Old Families going to send him off to fight The Mage? I’ve no way of knowing. It’s driving me nutters. Where is he? What’s he doing? Is he okay? Is he sad?

Does he think I’m dead?

Did it make him happy?

I hope it didn’t. I hope he’s pissed. I hope he’s mad as hell at me for dying. I hope he’s hunting me down with his fangs out and his wand up and cursing me for trying to get out of our big showdown. We promised, after all. Some little kids promise they’ll get married when they’re older. Baz and I promised we’d kill each other. If I’m fucked up, so is he. We’re a pair. I’m letting down my end of the deal.

At least I’ve got the Sword yet. I’ll get in one good hit and let him set my on fire. I’ll make sure he knows that I wanted it to be him. Not the Humdrum but him. He's always been my finale.

Come and get me, Baz. I won’t run.

Nebraska. The good life. Yeah. Shepard’s singing full-blast. “Hand in unlovable hand..!”

“Shepard?”

“What’s up, man?”

“What’re we gonna tell your mom?” He said his dad’s away for work. That if I’m around come July, I’ll meet his dad.

Kylia coughs suspiciously in the back seat. Shepard glances sideways at me. “You got kicked out of the house. It’ll be chill, Simon. Just follow my lead.”

I shrug. Alright. We’re coming up on Omaha fast. I’m good at following orders.

**Shepard**

Kylie hugs me in her driveway. She smells like fast food and cooled down sweat. She hugs Simon too after holding her arms open in invitation to him. He’s awkward as hell but he picks her off her feet and squeezes her once before letting her go and taking three steps away.

“Seriously, good luck with Michele. Be polite, you’ll be fine.”

Simon nods seriously. Kylie runs her hand up the back of my fade and gives the curve of my skull a pat. “Text me, call me. I’ll probably die this first week but I’ll come up for air on Saturday.”

Simon twiddles his thumbs the next ten minutes it takes to get to my house. I park on the side of the road so I don’t block my mom in the garage.

**Simon**

It looks how I always thought American houses look. The suburbs are really spacious, with big grass lots between each house that you could fit a whole apartment into if you were smart about it. It’s a pale blue house, like the color spent a long time in the sun. It doesn’t look old for it but cute like in a picture book, with a little covered porch that has white wicker furniture. The door’s open, with a glass door letting you see the dark foyer.

A tiny Black woman opens the glass door and leans out; we’ve been sitting in the car for awhile and I guess Mrs. Riley got impatient.

“Be cool. Let me do the talking. You just do the thing where you look like the boy-dog in a Disney movie.”

I push back my curls in frustration and wrinkle my nose. “What does that mean?”

“Perfect! Keep that face, Simon.”

Shepard flings open the door and runs up to hug his mom. He’s a beanpole, but he lifts his mom up anyway and she shrieks and giggles and I don’t know how to miss something I never had but I go hot with missing anyway. Americans are so effusive with their feelings. I’ve never seen Professor Bunce or Mrs. Wellbelove laugh with their mouth open and free, white teeth glowing like that, easy as a porch swing.

And then she looks at me staring in the passenger seat. I’m back in my school clothes that we washed at a laundry mat to try not to make me look so pathetic. I get out and try to make my face look like a Disney cartoon or whatever. I think Shepard wants me to look cute and harmless. (I am not safe.) Mrs. Riley watches me with raised eyebrows, her eyes rolling between me and her son a couple of times with real slow exaggerated blinks.

“So, mom,” Shepard launches right into it. He steps back to stand beside me and throws an arm over my neck. “This is my new friend Simon Snow.”

“Hello Simon,” she says nicely even though she’s mostly staring Shepard down, waiting for him to get on with it.

“Hello, ma’am.”

She blinks at my accent and her head tips and she puts a hand on her hip and purses her lips. Then she clicks her tongue and turns around and opens the glass door again. “Guess it’s good I made tea.”

“Good sign,” Shepard whispers to me.

The tea is cold and sweet with slices of lemon floating between the cubes of ice. It’s so cold it hurts my front teeth.

**Shepard**

“So Simon’s adoptive father kicked him out cause he’s gay.” I go right for it. “And I said he could stay with us awhile while he figures it out.”

Mom’s going to kill me. Simon’s coughing into his cup of iced tea.

“Simon, baby, please don’t take anything I’m about to say personally,” she says in her even warning tone. Simon nods rapidly, rubbing his hand under his chin to catch the dribbles of his tea. He’s red-faced and shooting me a glare. I should have warned him that this was my lie, but I know he’d protest it. But it’ll totally work cause mom’s real good about this kind of thing. She just needs to yell at me a little first. “But Shepard, what happened to a phone call? You called me to let me know you were coming in today, you can’t give me a little advance warning you’re bringing home a friend? And how did you two meet, hmm?”

She pins Simon with her gaze. He looks at me desperately and then drops his head. I don’t think he’s even pretending to be so down. He swipes away the condensation on his glass and shrugs one shoulder.

“He, uhm, found me on my own out in Eureka Springs. My uh, my-m-my dad and I just got off, uhm, out of a - off the phone where’d been telling me he uh,” he bites on his bottom lip and oh shit, he’s fucking crying or about to, “I'm not worth coming to get.”

He sniffs hard and laughs miserably at himself and scrubs his shirtsleeve across his nose and grunts and shakes his head and sits there stooped up over himself, waiting for the ceiling to come down on him.

Simon still won't tell me about Eureka Springs, but I guess he got ahold of that Mage fellow.

Mom looks at me. I nod once. She reaches over before I can stop her and puts a hand on his hand. He jumps in his seat, jerking from her touch.

“You’re okay, Simon,” she says like she’s stating a fact, not reacting at all to his jumpiness save for the tightening around her mouth and eyes. “You hear me, baby?”

She’s already calling him baby. I love my mom so much right now.

“Y-yes ma’am.”

“Shepard, go make up the guest room.” It’s not a request. The kitchen chair squeaks under me when I push out. Simon looks up to me, wild-eyed. I touch his shoulder slowly. He's hard as a rock with tension.

“Sit with my mom, Simon. I’ll be right back.”

Simon nods reluctantly. When I’m out of sight from the kitchen, I speed walk to the linen closet and grab bedsheets, determined to do this as fast as I can and rescue him. But when I come back, they’re just sitting there, drinking tea, chatting in low tones. I linger around the corner.

“I’m going to the store tomorrow. Do you like to eat anything in particular? Have any allergies, Simon baby?”

I don’t hear Simon’s response, so I assume he’s shaking his head. I hear the kitchen chairs squeak. And then Simon whispers. “Do you drink hot tea here?”

She laughs. “Lipton brews as good hot as cold.”

When Simon’s in the shower, I ask mom if we can give him some of dad’s clothes to wear. I keep waiting for her to corner me and lay in on the questions, but she doesn’t. She rubs her hands up and down the back of my head and my shoulders and over my arms like she’s making sure I’m all there. I let her. Then I hug her and tell her about my trip and show her pictures and talk big and loud for her so she knows I’m all there.

I’ll have to tell her one day. That the mean looking tattoo she doesn’t like is just as mean as she thinks it is. I’ll have to tell her I took the easy way out.

When Simon eats dinner that night, he eats like someone’s going to take his plate. His knee bounces under the table the whole time, jittering till he hits it against the lip of the table and rattles all the plates. Mom and I carry on like nothing’s wrong while Simon takes a deep breath, gripping the edge of the table. Mom gives him seconds without him asking. He eats slower that time.

I don’t even have to ask what’s wrong at the end of the day. He and I clean up (whoever doesn’t cook cleans, thems the rules) and Simon’s washing so I can dry and put the dishes away. He said students who get in trouble have to scrub up the kitchens at school. Apparently, he got that a lot from his teachers for classroom interruption. He doesn’t elaborate past that, only says washing dishes calms him down. He likes keeping his hands busy.

So he sounds calm when he says “I can’t stay here.”

And I stay calm when I say, “Why not?”

He doesn’t have an answer. I’m not going to let him invent one. I say: “Keep washing so we can go play Madden.”

He says, “What’s Madden?”

Don’t know if it’s cause he grew up in the system or attends magical school or Britain’s really that culturally deficient that he doesn’t know who Steve Madden is. Is the answer: D, all of the above? So I say, “Simon, you are in good hands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ps totally have seen rope twisters catch from flaming fields in the summer so xoxo love the plains country


	12. We Can Pretend

* * *

* * *

**Penelope**

“We can pretend we’re dating,” I tell Baz while we’re waiting in the round loop of his driveway.

“I think we’ll be fine to tell them we’re working on a research project,” he says flatly, not looking at me.

The past two days have been bleak. Baz had a nightmare last night. It woke us both up from where we'd passed out on the couch. I'm not that surprised; Simon says Baz whimpers in his sleep sometimes.

“That’s consuming our lives at the start of summer?”

He rolls his eyes at me and turns in the driver’s seat to sneer at me like I’m stupid. “We don’t have to tell them anything about what we’re doing.”

“Surely they’ll ask. You stayed at my house for two days. We need to tell them something.” Simon and I never needed so many layers of subterfuge at Watford. No one pushed us about our “secret missions” for The Mage. They seem so stupid now, so unnecessary. What had we been doing? Why us? Why Simon? Mage’s Heir or not, he should have been allowed to at least finish his primary education in magic before being sent out after wargs and basilisks and killing the Goblin king.

“Fine, Bunce, let’s tell them we’re hunting down the Sword of Mages.”

So what if we are? Everyone considers it a relic now. It’s holy. As far as anyone knows, it’s the weapon that slew the Insidious Humdrum. It's a thin line and a white lie. It's the only thing that lets me keep Simon safe from living and dying as nothing more than a bomb.

(I see him, holding hands with the child of himself. I see him leaving me like a photograph undeveloping.)

“We should. That’s exactly what we should tell them.”

Baz blinks at me. “If I tell my father that I’m searching for the Sword of Mages, I will tell him I’m going to cut off the Mage’s head with it.”

My mother’s been keeping it hush hush about Baz being over. I told her that we’re trying to find Simon’s body. When she asked why Baz Pitch was helping me, I said “even Baz thinks Simon deserves a real Mage’s funeral.” The Grimm-Pitch family has a long and complicated reputation, but Natasha Pitch was a woman of absolute honor and dignity. That her son would uphold such a standard exists in the realm of reasonable possibility. Mom let it go, but I don’t think the conversation is over. I think she’s choosing when and how to believe me. She’s waiting for me to lie.

“So tell him that.”

Baz barks out a mocking laugh. “Do you hear yourself, Bunce? If I say that in front of you, you’re making yourself an accessory to any future fallout between my family and The Mage.”

“He let Simon die.” The Mage can die too. I’ll go down if it brings him down. Simon would hate it, but Simon’s not here to stop me.

“Snow’s not dead,” Baz spits. I look at him. He says it again, slower this time, urgent in it, trying to give the words power. Trying to make the both of us believe it again. “Snow is not dead.”

He’s right. He’s right. I need him to be right. I nod. He nods with me. When he turns to leave the car, I grab him.

“Baz.”

He raises an eyebrow at me, pointedly looking at my hand on him. I let him go.

“They really don’t know you’re gay?”

He sneers. “It’s not a topic worth discussion.”

“What about Simon?”

His sneer narrows; it sharpens. “What about him?”

“When we find him,” when when when, “will you tell him you love him?”

The door clicks open. Baz’s foot grinds the gravel of the drive beneath it. “It’s not a topic worth discussion.”

Daphne Grimm is blonde. She likes my yellow sundress. When she kissed Baz on the cheek, he leaned his head down to make it easier for her. Mordelia’s overnighting with a friend; the twins are three and stare at me. The baby burbles. Malcolm Grimm-Pitch watches us over his steepled fingers, properly villainous in disposition. And Baz eats teeny tiny bites of food, mostly pushing the mint sauce around his lamb, cutting and cutting until his plate’s a massacre of unresolved hunger. He ate out the nearly-raw medallion of the center cut in painfully slow bites, barely opening his mouth. It gave me an ulcer to watch. Everyone else ignored him eating. I should have looked away. He kept glaring at me from the corner of his eye. His mouth is too full and so empty.

(I see a little boy of thin bones of a smile of misplacement of lost lost lost - I see Simon I see myself unseeing him I see him. I see him not.)

Baz looks better now that he’s showered, more himself in his cleanliness. His step mother had delicately suggested the idea. While he’d been upstairs repairing his dignity, Daphne had made passive perfect small talk with me. No clue what we said, only that it was forgettably charming.

The small talk’s taken a pointed edge now. Mr. Grimm-Pitch is asking me about my plans for after Watford and if I’ll stay for eighth year, and if I intend to join the Coven like my mother. We’re not constituted as an Old Family in the way Simon or The Mage mean it (more of a wealth stratification than anything) but we’re a long line of mages on my mother’s side. She’s well-established. It could be generic, or it could be rhetorical cycling into a pit of politics.

The Mage always left me and Simon on our own. We had to figure everything out. How much easier would our lives have been if we’d had learned adults on our side? Why were we left with so many messes?

The Pitch Manor has one of the best privately owned libraries within the World of Mages. Natasha Grimm-Pitch had been beyond brilliant. Now half the Watford Library is banned; the shelves new with dust where books once lived.

Baz gives me a look like he can sense me thinking.

“Well, sir, it honestly depends on the outcome of our research.”

I hear Baz breathe out through his nose, but his face doesn’t budge. He simply sets down his wine glass (the only thing he’d been consuming readily tonight) and dabs his lips with a cloth napkin.

“Ah, the illustrious research Basil has alluded to; are you confident enough to share it with me, Miss Bunce?” I can’t tell if Mr. Grimm-Pitch is humoring me or genuinely interested. He has a weird absence of inflection or expression. It’s like talking to an oil painting.

“We’re attempting to prove the permanence of matter from magical manipulation in regards specifically to dematerialization and conjuring spells,” Baz interrupts. Oh, that’s a lovely way of talking around the subject. Mr. Grimm-Pitch nods approvingly.

“And has a week of research yielded any progress?”

“Yes. I’ve established the existence of a non-temporal dimension that maintains complete physical objects.” Multiple dimensions exist in concept (my parents are married through Time. It’s very romantic.) But there’s no practicality to it. There’s never been a physicality to it.

Mr. Grimm-Pitches’s left eyebrow goes up.

“Bunce had the idea of syncing with a watch and using ‘into thin air’ on it. It records time, so we’re operating on the precedence that it enters a space that maintains matter’s structural integrity. The passage of time we record fluctuates dramatically. We’re attempting the procedure on organic matter but so far, we’ve yet to succeed on that front.”

“That’s remarkable,” Mr. Grimm-Pitch says as if we’ve told him we’ve recently learned to count to five and that the sky is blue. But then he says, “Very well done,” and looks as Baz and Baz tips his chin up a little like he’s properly proud and it’s so so so weird. Watching their awkward dynamic is as bad as watching Baz quietly starve over a plate of food. (He eats with a hand over his mouth and his body turned away when he eats around me. There’s a fourth year girl who eats like that.)

“What spurred the interest? It’s quite the endeavor to take on, and you both seem deeply invested.”

Baz and I exchange a glance. He opens his mouth. I open mine faster.

**Baz**

“I want to recall the Sword of Mages from the ether. The Mage wasn’t able to conjure it at Simon’s memorial; I’m operating under the presumption that it maintains a physical status within this dimension and can be recovered,” Penelope Bunce blabs it all right out.

Bunce, you absolute numpty. We would have done perfectly well not mentioning the Sword of Mages or The Mage at all through this conversation. If she were closer to me, I’d kick her under the table. The toecap on my oxford is very pointy.

If Bunce throws my father for a loop, he doesn’t show the slightest bit of provocation. “What will you do with The Sword of Mages if you should recover it, Miss Bunce?”

“Embed it into the boulder until the next worthy mage might call it their own, as was originally intended. Simon deserves more than a plaque on a wall. He saved the World of Mages.”

Ordinarily, my father would scoff about the legitimacy of that claim but he has enough tact to refrain from suggesting to Penelope Bunce that she lied under oath about Simon defeating the Humdrum. She did lie, but not about that.

“And Basil,” father says, sliding his cool gaze from Bunce to me. The faintest twist of amusement pulls at his mouth. Or perhaps it’s disdain. “Are your intentions so noble?”

“Malcom,” Daphne tsks.

“That’ll be determined from which moral ground history chooses to judge me,” I sniff, pausing for a sip of whine like the dramatic prick I am. Bunce has thrown us into the ring. Fine then. I’ll damn her for it. She’s going down with me. “I’m helping Bunce on the condition that when we find the Sword, I first get to use it to decapitate The Mage. Then she may do with it what she likes.”

“Basilton,” Daphne tsks at me now. The twins are in bed, it’s not like they’re spongeing up our treason and to puke out in the middle of the club and get us all exiled.

“How crude,” my father chastises over the lip of his wine glass. I know he’s pleased by my answer, by the profession of allegiance and commitment. He can’t pretend to be miffed by such a declaration after years of encouraging my wand into Snow’s eye. “Miss Bunce, I’m surprised you’d accept this arrangement. While your mother doesn’t profess any great love for The Mage, she’s no supporter of the Old Families’ disposition on resistance.”

Bunce, in her pretty sundress, looks well past done with everyone in the world. “I don’t give a troll’s arse about politics. Any side of a war that pads its front lines with children is not a side with which I wish to align myself.”

Her eyes find mine. She’s talking about Snow. She’s talking about me.

Her little American better appreciate her, or I’ll kill him after I kill The Mage.

**Penelope**

Seven Snakes, they better let me use their library after this.

**Shepard**

Four rules guide the Riley house.

  1. No one says “shut up”
  2. The cook never does the dishes
  3. No dishes left in the sink overnight or before going away (man we got opinions on dishes in this house.
  4. No one cries alone



We had to add the fourth rule for the years I was sick. Because crying alone felt guilty and hopeless. Because we couldn’t stop apologizing for the way life had spun out of control. Because we were all going down together. We had to let ourselves be okay with drowning.

The second night in a row that Simon wakes himself up from his nightmare shouting and crying, he creaks out of the guest room. The first time he had a nightmare around us, back in the motels, Kylie and I woke him up and Simon did not like that at all; he flinched so bad he almost fell off the bed. He said not to worry. He apologized and curled up and pretended to go back to sleep. So I don’t go to him now in my own house. He checks his sword under the bed (I hear it scrape) and then he flops around for a minute, the bed squeaking, before giving up and creeping out of the guest room across from my bedroom. The house shifts under his feet, his weight new to the wood, to the timbre and bone of this place.

Morning enters the sky eagerly, lighting the edges to smoke, the sun ready to burn up through night. It’s early. Before five, maybe.

From upstairs, my parent’s door opens and closes. I listen to my mother descend the staircase.

I hear her say, “Simon, baby, you’re up early,” like he’s suddenly all eager to bed eager to rise, like she didn’t get woken up by a boy crying out; like she isn’t a mom haunted by that sound.

“Sorry,” Simon says into the newness of this house he’s stolen inside. “I - uh. Sorry.”

Apologies live and breed in Simon Snow’s mouth.

I listen to them go into the kitchen together and the rush of the faucet water and the clack of the kettle on the stovetop. There’s a lot of fucked up shit in the world, but fuck whatever made Simon Snow feel so sorry for being alive. Even my deal isn’t that bad. At least I made the choice to be cursed. Chosen one, huh? Who said.

The smell of frying batter drags me from bed easily when I next open my eyes. It’s still ass o’clock early, but I won’t fall asleep again. I can hear mom and Simon in the kitchen, talking. Mom’s got on her Mom Voice. It’s the first I’m hearing it since we’ve gotten back, and that more than anything else gets me out of bed. Simon’s not ready for that level of Michele Riley. She’s been tight-lipped about me bringing home some gay British kid, but any minute now she’s gonna shake me down for a better lie.

I don’t have one. I think a lot of my lying goes into pretending like I don’t have a death date circled on a calendar for seven odd years from now. (You know, when I was sixteen, the idea of living to twenty-six might as well been living forever. Now that I’m staring down twenty, I realize twenty-six isn’t anything at all.)

“Simon,” mom’s saying, her voice swinging on a melody of wisdom, “just because a man in a position of authority comes into your life does not make him a father figure.”

“I know.” He doesn’t sound like it. “I know. I don’t really see him like that. He’s never treated me like a child. Just - he’s all I have.”

“What we have isn’t always what we need. You might well have pockets full of stones, but when you’re treading water, that’s the last thing you need.”

Do parents just like, get a list of weird stuff to say when they have kids? Like the doctor hands you your baby and a manuscript? That’s so not a saying. Mom’s making stuff up.

“He just has expectations of me I can’t - I can’t ever get it right. I’m so far from what I’m supposed to be. What everyone thinks I’m supposed to be. He gave me everything I have, and all I’ve done is disappoint him and now - now I can’t even - he doesn’t want me. No one will want me. I’m nothing.”

The pan sizzles with batter.

“Listen, Simon. I’m not sure if this is what you want to hear, but at the end of the day, you’re a child. That man who took you, who has you so scared to be yourself, to be honest, who put all those expectations on you, he did you wrong. He took responsibility for you, Simon, and he failed you. Not the other way around. Little kids don’t fail grown ups. I don’t know what hell you’ve been through to get you so turned around in life, but no grown up, no anyone, should be making you feel like you’re nothing. That’s not how life works.”

“I just - I know. I know. I mean. Adults are supposed to take care of you. I’ve never - no one’s ever-” Simon sucks in a torn up breath, once, sharp and cutting over the sound of the skillet clattering a little. Mom must be doing the cooking. I lean around the kitchen entrance to see Simon at the sink, facing the window, head hung down low between his shoulders. He’s quivering. The words that come must have been inside Simon for years because one he starts talking, he can’t stop. He trips over himself getting them all out, the same way he’d eaten so furiously when we first fed him in Mitten’s kitchen, like a skinny dog. Simon talks in a rush, pouring out before he can be shut up again.

I think you can starve from staying silent. I think you can die from going unheard.

He talks over an angry sob, gnashing his teeth through it. “I tried to call him. I tried to ask for help. I have nothing, and he didn’t care. I’m all alone, and he didn’t care. I'm not useful anymore. I did the one thing he needed from me and now I’m - nothing. I can’t go back home. It was all - conditional. It was just to keep me in line so I could be his weapon, his political pawn. Now it’s done. It’s done and what do I have to show for it? Nothing. I’ve got nothing. I’m nothing.”

Mom slides the skillet from the burner and turns to Simon. She doesn’t reach out. She just stands there, head not even as high as Simon’s shoulder. I want to protect her; I don’t know how. I want to grow old enough to take care of her when she needs it. I don’t know how.

“Look at me - Look at me, Simon; Do you think this world hasn’t wanted to tell me I’m nothing? It sure did. You better believe it did. But this is my one life to live, and I wanted to live it for me, the best I can. For a long time, I acted like a mean thing to make it so no one could get close enough to tell me I’m nothing, till I found good people who made it safe enough for me to be good again too. It took me a long time to find the person I am, living life how I want to live it, and be okay with what I’ve done and who I’ve been when my time comes. Life’s gonna give you hell, and it won’t be easy, but that bit’s on you. Won’t be today, won’t be tomorrow, but one day, you’ll decide the person you want to be on your own terms. No one gets to define you. No one gets to make you into nothing. You make the choice of what you are. You’re not nothing, baby. I’m looking at you right now, Simon Snow, aren’t I? I see you. You’re right here with me.”

Simon sniffs hard and nods, not turning to her, not releasing his death grip on the lip of the sink. Mom watches the side of his face before turning back to the stove.

“Come on now, Simon, you setting the table for me?”

“Yes’m,” Simon nods, pushing away and pulling down the plates. He catches sight of me, his face flushed, eyes puffy. His embarrassment wars with the sudden jut of his chin, the flare of his nostrils.

I nod to him; easy tiger. Simon blows out a breath, shakes out his curls, smiles weakly.

“Wassup,” I say casually, coming into the kitchen, hand out. Simon smacks it lightly, palm, knuckles, fist bump. “Nice,” I praise. He flushes this time with pleasure and shakes his curls out again, shrugging awkwardly. The plates click down onto the table.

“Crying on your mum,” he mumbles, voice lower than the floor, shooting nervous glances at my mom.

Mom sighs real long and looks over her shoulder at me. “Crying’s good for the soul. Shep will tell you I cry just about everyday.”

“Mom’s pro at crying.”

Mom hums again and hands me off a stack of pancakes to distribute at the table.

“I raised my boy to cry when he needs to cry. You can’t heal what you don’t treat, can’t get over what you don’t confront. Now say, Simon, before you sit, jog out and grab the mail for me. I’m waiting on a bill.”

It’s way too early for the mail come, but Simon hops eagerly to task. Mom whirls on me.

“Shepard, I don’t know what bull story you have for me, but that boy isn’t some gay homeless kid. I’ve seen street kids. He didn’t even have a dollar store plastic bag of dirty underwear to his name when he came in the door.”

“Ah, jeeze, it’s like, it’s real complicated, mom.”

“Is it gangs?”

“Mom.”

“All that talk about being a weapon, about politics. He in a gang? Is that why he has an accent? It’s like Oliver Bloody Twist in my house right now, Shepard.”

I can’t help it. I laugh. “Would you believe me if I said he appeared out of thin air?”

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

Well, if I start telling my mom the truth about Simon, I’m afraid of what else might tumble out along with it. I’m spared another day of honesty because Simon pops back into the kitchen like an eager to please puppy. He’s looking at my mom like she hung the moon.


	13. Nothing

* * *

* * *

**  
Simon**

The Humdrum was Nothing. It was the hole I left behind. It was the absence of the things that I took. There’s probably a math problem or a philosophy theory or something in like, Latin or French or Arabic, or whatever for what this is. This feeling. This mess. This like, parallel or logical fallacy or something. I’m way too thick to try to puzzle it out. I just keep going in loops. There's stuff in my life I can't remember, which is starting to make me nervous. But then the stuff I can remember, I wish I didn't. I’m angry, and I don’t like it. I’m scared, and I’m tired of it. I’m alone, and I don’t want to be. I’m so full of _everything_. That’s not nothing. I’m bursting, I’m so full. I can’t sit still. If I had magic, I’d be going off. But I don’t, and I don’t know what to do with myself.

Be better. I don’t know how. Be better. Be perfect. Be good. I don’t know. Be so good it makes up for everything else. Be good enough that it’s still good, even when it’s me doing it. Be so good, even I can’t ruin it. I don’t know. I don’t know how to do that. Try not to ruin anything else. I can do that, can’t I? I can get my shit together.

I have to get back to Watford. I have to talk to The Mage. I need answers. I need something. He makes me feel terrible, but he grounds me. He's not my father but he's the only thing I have. He's a stone in my pocket weighing me down.

Maybe Mrs. Riley is right, and I don’t owe him anything. I don’t want to fight in a War. Not for politics I don’t understand. Not against the parents of my classmates, or worse, the kids I watched grow up. Most of all, I don't want to fight Baz Pitch. _Magic separates us from the world; let nothing separate us from each other._ Is it wrong to stand by that? The Old Families and their exclusionism needs to end, on that I agree, but Penny says violence only begets violence, and my life is proof enough. I no sooner end a fight than another begins, branching off from the first. It’s an endless cycle. I’ve been fighting since I was a child. What's the world look like when I'm not peering over the sight of my own raised fists? Can I have that? Mrs. Riley says it's my choice.

Mrs. Riley doesn’t know the real story. I think I cocked that up anyway, saying what I said, too much talking about The Mage and what he wants from me. Doesn’t really fit the story Shepard told her. I keep waiting for her to ask about it, about being gay. If I have to talk about a boy, I’ll talk about Baz. Penny had to put a Baz quota on me cause I talk about him so much. If I talk about Baz, Mrs. Riley will get tired of hearing about him, and then I won’t have to talk anymore. It’s bloody brilliant of me, really.

Guess it’s kind of gay of me to like the idea of telling people Baz is my boyfriend. It’s not like they’ll ever meet him. It’s enough to make me laugh. Baz would kill me if he ever found out. That makes me laugh even more.

Now Shepard’s in the room with me, asking me why I’m laughing alone to myself like a maniac. So I tell him. He laughs too but he does the thing where he pats me on the back and says “Simon, my friend, you’re a mess,” which makes it sound okay that I’m a mess. I’m not nothing, I’m just a mess. You can clean up a mess. You don't need magic to do that.

**Baz**

“You should speak with your aunt, Basil. I don’t approve of her lifestyle, but Fiona does have her ways.”

Our driver took Bunce back to her home, and father has since sequestered me into his office. Scotch breathes in a glass in each of our hands; he’s even ignoring that I’m smoking in the house. It’s a proper father-son moment: conspiring to depose The Mage from his position of authority, commending me on attempting my own private scheme, a light scolding for taking action without consultation. Aleister Crowly, it’s downright heartwarming. Pinch me, I’m dreaming.

“You’ll have to elaborate, father.”

“Bounty hunting is beneath a Pitch, but Fiona has a not completely useless reputation as an _acquéreur_ of things. People. Information. Objects. I can’t guarantee she has anything truly valuable to the subject of magical metaphysics, but there may be a spell or strategy of use to you in your...quest.”

Quest. He makes it sound like I’m on one of The Mage’s little errands, the one’s he’d plague Simon with until the moron would show up one day, sporting another scar, another burden, brimming over with grandiose purpose and failure in equal turn. It never made sense to me, sending Snow off like that, ill-equipped, barely able to cast a cradle spell. The twins have better elocution than his street urchin accent mumbling and bumbling, slaughtering any technique. He wasn’t taught, he wasn’t educated. He was just...thrust out into danger. He accepted it.

It never made sense. It was like watching a sled dog run itself to death. Snow the sled dog. (If I had Snow in a harness, I'd never let him out of my sight.) (I’m losing it.)

“I’d feel better if you included her, Basil,” father continues when I remain silent, caught up in my deteriorating thoughts. I think he’s worried. We really are sharing a moment. Maybe Bunce’s powerful heterosexuality has given him a bit of faith in me again.

As loathe as I am to admit that my father’s designs on The Mage have some semblance of organization and intellect, I will when it comes to placing him in context to my aunt Fiona. She’s a bit more rabid. If she catches wind of my hunt for the Sword, she’ll want to be there cheering and hooting when I’m theoretically decapitating The Mage. She’ll want to piss on his corpse.

She would help though. She’d want me to have the Sword; she’d like the poetics of it. Using the Mage’s Heir’s weapon to slay The Mage. Sullying the glory of it with vengeance and blood. If only she knew.

Simon Snow killed the Humdrum, the thing that killed my mother.  
Simon Snow is the Humdrum, the thing that killed my mother.  
And I still love him.

Crowley, I’m pathetic.

It’s not a topic worth discussing.

I call Bunce that same night, further cementing to myself that I’ve gone off the deep end. Calling Bunce, after I’ve spent days with her. This is what Snow’s done to me. Couldn’t he have disappeared in the middle of summer with no one to witness it so I could have enjoyed the hols in peace, wanking my way into a depraved spiral of fantasies like normal? Instead, I’m on a cursed quest to find him. It'll be my luck that he's in a make-believe Sleeping Beauty curse and I'll kiss him back to life. Bloody quest.

“I want to do research at your place tomorrow,” is how she answers her phone. No wonder Snow never developed manners, he had no company from which to learn. Wellbelove apparently lacked the mental fortitude for the task. Or she possessed the foresight to see it as a lost cause.

“We’re going to London tomorrow to ask my aunt for help,” is how I reply, what with pleasantries off the table.

“Your aunt hates Simon.” It’s true. Fiona often drops me off for the new school year and she always loudly tells me to ring her first when I end him. She promised me sparklers and a cake for the day.

“My whole family hates him, Bunce. We’re not finding Snow, remember, just the Sword. If there’s a Chosen One attached to it, well, hurrah for us, what a lovely bonus, well done, Christmas came early.”

“Fine. But then we research at yours. I want to take a fine tooth comb to your library. I’m thinking maybe we can reverse the incantation or something-”

“Think at me tomorrow.” I need to drain a deer. I need a break. I need to look in a mirror and wonder if I’m see-through with how obvious I am, how thin with want I feel.

  
  
  


**Simon**

I can’t swim, but the swimming pool doesn’t go more than six feet deep. It’s finally the weekend, so Kylie has free time from her internship, and Shepard refuses to study on the weekends, which is A plus of him. I’m wearing a pair of swim trunks that used to belong to his dad, which is kind of weird, so I wore my knickers beneath them. I told Shepard this and he pulled back the elastic of his trunks to show me he was wearing underwear too. I thought I was about to see his bits and nearly fell right into the water. Kind of reminded me of when Baz pushed me down the stairs.

Shepard looks both smaller and less small just in his swim trunks. Seeing people’s bodies makes me feel weird- there’s just so much. I want to look at him and I don’t want to be obvious about it. I don’t want to make him feel weird. I didn’t see him without a shirt before now, so I didn’t see the tattoo he has high up on his arm. It’s a crisp black, like it’s fresh even though he kind of squirmed around when I asked and said he’s had it for awhile. It’s a snake swallowing its own tail, an ouroboros, and there’s runes all around it, jagged like they got carved in with a shaky hand. Runes I recognize but can’t decipher. The more I try to make sense of what I’m looking at, the more my head hurts. I feel like I should be able to read it. I swear the snake’s blinking and coiling on him. I want to look and it doesn't want me to see it.

We’re at Kylie’s friend’s pool. His name is Maurice; he and Kylie are in college together; a couple of kids from Omaha go there, even from her own highschool class, but he’s an ecology major too. Maurice isn’t small like Shepard. He’s twenty and has shoulders like I do. And he’s so dark he glows silver with the pool water reflecting on the shape of his chest. When he comes up from under the water, droplets roll off the tight coils of his cropped hair and glint under the porchlights. I notice this because I keep looking at him. He's a lot to look at. When he sees me looking, he looks at me right back. That embarasses me. I don't know why. I feel like I've been caught at something.

I tell him I was looking at his cross, said I have one just like it. I’m not wearing it now, so he probably thinks I’m lying. (I don’t know why I feel so weird.) I took it off this afternoon when I was laying in the yard reading. (Shepard has this series about mice and squirrels and whatnot with swords and it’s really good. The food sounds amazing. The food bits are as good as the battle bits. It might be the best series in the world. I can't tell if it's for little kids or not.) Anyway, the necklace got so hot out in the sun that I took it off and well….I don’t need it if Baz isn’t here. Then I figured, if we’re going swimming, it’ll just flop around on my chest, so I left it at Shepard’s house.

Baz being a vampire doesn't seem important anymore. I just want him to admit it to me. I want one less secret. I want his secrets.

I don't know what I want. Not yet.

Now I'm looking at Kylie. Looking at Kylie’s no safer. She’s in a yellow bikini and there’s so much of her to look at; I've never even seen Agatha in a bikini. Kylie’s seen more of me, seen me before, seen the pale scars of my adventures. Now I’m trying not to think about the matching pink gem piercing in her belly button matching the pink gem in her nose, as in her delicate earlobes. How neat and tiny those scars must be, almost like a freckle or a mole on me.

Maurice looks at her too, open with it in a way I don’t know how to be. I think he’s annoyed Shepard and I are here; I think it was supposed to be a date. Shepard doesn’t seem to care. He reminds me of Penelope in that way, in his indifference. Course, Penny does stuff like puts her feet up on chairs or even tables to show that she doesn’t care (but I think she thinks it through first) whereas Shepard really doesn’t, or doesn’t notice. People don’t seem to mind though because he’s so fucking nice. He gets on with Maurice, talking about some river god (Normals are weird here) or something, telling him about the rope twister we saw over the field on fire.

I don’t know if that’s a good memory for me or a bad one. I kinda forgot until then that even non-magical things could be amazing; that the earth itself can smell like a spell. But I came from the earth too. I’m natural too. As normal and as natural as the wind aflame. If it weren’t for us watching, that twister would have burned on unwitnessed. Not abandoned, not forgotten, just unseen.

I’m glad we saw it. I’m glad Kylie stopped and Shepard said things like that make him feel alive. Even though I felt so sick and awful after The Mage discarded me and that’s all I could think about then, what I was, what I am no longer, what I’m left with being, I think it’s a good memory.

It’s like my list of good things I don’t let myself think about. How I used to think the Wavering Wood was good but fuck the Wavering Wood, only bad shit happens there. It seemed cool at first but no, it’s just blood and pain with bonus foliage. And The Mage. He used to be a good thing on my list, but after sixth year, he just made me feel empty. He sucked the life out of me like the Humdrum sucks out magic.

So much of what I thought was good for me turns out to be shit. A little time, a little distance, and the big picture starts to fall apart. Perspective and all that. If good can be bad, bad can be good, so maybe me not having magic anymore will feel good and life changing in a few years. I want to listen to Mrs. Riley, and I _want_ to have _years_ to figure it out.

Penny and I used to say it’d be a miracle if we lived to see the ripe old age of eighteen. That’s coming up quick for me. I want to see Penny and show her me at eighteen. I want to tell her I made it. I want to be there when she turns eighteen too. And nineteen. And twenty. And after that and after that. I don’t want to die. I don’t think I should die. Funny (not funny) how big of a thought that is, but it almost makes me drop Shepard.

He’s on my shoulders, trying to push Kylie off Maurice’s shoulders as we play Chicken. (If I had magic, I bet I could cast **“stay put”** on Shepard. Well, no, cause I’d probably end up glueing him to me for all-time. Penny had to spell my hat all those years so it wouldn't fuse to my head.)

We’ve been in the water so long now my fingers are pruney. The swimsuit thing stopped weirding me out as much after an hour. The tension from the beginning of the evening dissolved when Maurice found out I can’t swim. He said of all of us, how come I’m the one who can’t swim. I told him I'm a disadvantaged urban youth, which made him laugh. Then I went further and said British kids aren't taught to swim so we'd stop colonizing so much. Maurice liked that. He said “that's fucked up” approvingly. I admitted I stole the joke from my friend Rhys who is in a wheelchair, and that apparently makes it funnier. Then he said I look like the kind of guy who steals jokes now that I can't steal anymore land and people.

I wasn't sure if I was allowed to laugh at that joke. Kylie said I had to take the L.

It’s fun until it’s awkward, when Maurice and Kylie start floating together in the deep end, talking real low and close together. She drove us here and it’s pretty clear she won’t be leaving anytime soon. Shepard tells me she wanted to have us as a failsafe in case she wasn’t vibing.

“Seems like she’s vibing now,” I whisper to him.

“Cool to walk back? Probably take us an hour.”

It’s warm out, the night alive with summer. Overhead, bats flick in and out, skimming low towards the pool. Kylie makes Shepard promise to text her when we get home safe.

“I’ll take care of him,” I tell her because I need to make sure she knows it’ll be okay.

She splashes water at me. “So it’s like that now, huh?”

Shepard shakes his head at her. “You know it isn't.”

(Like what?)

He’s stuffing his feet into his Converse. I’m wearing the big ugly sneakers I found at Goodwill, and they’re rubbing the back of my naked heel. It’s a little cool, with my trunks sticking to my legs and dripping into my shoes, but I’ve got Shepard’s dad’s old denim jacket, worn soft and shapeless. Shepard has a jacket like it but his has patches and buttons.

The sidewalk comes and goes from us, broken up by grassy patches and gravel lots. We’re in a mostly suburban area of two and one story little houses, the occasional plop of a small business, like a vacuum repair place and a tax attorney. I’m keeping him entertained telling him more about magic. I love magic, and Shepard does too, even though he’s a Normal. Technically, this is enough to get me thrown out of the World of Mages but uh, not sure it applies anymore. I know more about magic than anyone he’s ever met, or least I’m telling him more than anyone’s told him before.

“I hope you get to meet Penny. She’s brilliant. The most brilliant. Her and Baz are always neck and neck for first in class. Been trading off the title every other year.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that a few times,” he says, bumping into me. “Penny sounds awesome.”

“She is.”

“Baz sounds awesome.”

“He is.” I’m caught up and agree before I mean to agree. Shepard grins at me. I knock into him hard enough to make him stumble out into the street, but now cars are coming. He stays walking down the middle; there’s not even yellow lines, we’re so residential.

“Baz wants to kill me.”

“Naaaaah.” Shepard adds a ‘pssshhh’ to the statement. “Pig-tailing pulling. Really fucked up, demented, admittedly concerning, pig-tail pulling.”

“You’re nutters.”

“Fluffer-nutters,” he says, jogging back onto the sidewalk as headlights flood the street from ahead. “Hey, it true you don’t have peanut butter in the UK?”

I shrug. “We got it.”

“Huh,” he says, real dramatic. “Well now I am feeling a craving, my friend. There’s a gas station if we,” he checks the street signs, “go this way.”

It’s not lonely here. It’s quiet, but we pass two different people walking dogs, which is brilliant. They let us pet them. A pair of younger kids race each other down the street on bikes, cards in the spokes chattering, safety lights flickering. They vanish into the night around the bend. Then it's just us again.

“Shepard,” I say, my eyes on the stars overhead, “thanks.”

“What for?”

“Helping me. Being really, really fucking nice. You and your mom, and Kylie - I’m gonna pay you back. If I can get back to Watford, I’ve got leprechaun gold. To Normals, it’s as good as real gold.”

I have to leave here. I can’t keep hiding. Kylie said take a vacation; okay, so I did. And I think I’ve figured some stuff out. I don’t want to fight in some war - hell, I can’t now, not without magic - and I’m _relieved_. I’m so relieved I could lay down and cry. But I want to see my friends. I want to...I don’t know. I want to find Penny and get a flat like we always pretended we would, if we both lived. I’m alive, and I want to live, and I want to lay down and cry. I love magic, I love it like lungs love air; instinctually, mindlessly, desperately. I miss my magic. But I don’t miss what it meant for me, all that power. Being the Chosen One. I can’t hurt anyone now. I can’t fight a war. I don’t have to kill Baz. There’s mercy in this. I’m just a bloke with a regular sword. I’m just Simon Snow.

“Woah,” Shepard pulls at the sleeve of his own dad’s jacket on me. “Slow your roll. I will totally accept leprechaun gold because _leprechaun gold_ , but Simon, man, my guy,” he lets me go and claps me hard on the back. “People don’t do nice things for the reward. Besides, I’m half the reason you got yoinked out of your magical coma. I couldn’t leave you on the side of the road.”

“Exactly. You helped me. You’ve been helping me. You could have left me.”

“I _wouldn’t_ leave someone like that.”

I nod seriously. “I know. You’re too good to leave some poor bloke to fend for himself. So thank you. Thank you for being my friend.” Penny can’t be mad that I made another friend.

“Simon…” Shepard trails off. I leave it be. I’m no good at accepting thanks either. Not for the big stuff in life. Penny doesn’t like to say hello because she doesn’t want to say goodbye. Shepard can have his own thing. After a beat, he huffs and bumps into me again. Yeah. That’s what I thought.

The gas station bends with light on the corner of two roads converging. It’s all lit up, white and chrome, with two pumps in front with a covered bridge across them. The windows of the store itself are plastered with ads. 2 pints of Haagen Daaz for $9, Camel Cigarettes CHEAP, 59 cent slushies, Rewards Cards, Liter sodas, Propane refills, Bagged ice, E-Cigarettes, Lottery tickets. I can barely see inside to the rows of glistening cellophane.

Shepard’s got a tshirt on and a hoodie, better than me just in a jacket and wet trunks. “I’ll be right out. You want anything?”

“Slushie?” The pool sucked all the moisture out of me. Being thirsty reminds me of a spell gone wrong, how my magic would burn the air up into dry tinder and parch my throat.

He throws me a thumbs up and goes in with a jingle of bells. The chiming sets me on edge.

The noise of the night drops away from me. I’m left outside of the store, that belltoll jingling in my ear. The crickets hold their singing; the fluorescent lights whine overhead. I can’t see in the store. I cross in front of the glass, trying to see through the cracks between the signage, but the posters lap over and over, covering the windows entirely. No lights escaping. The store’s lit up. It’s pitch dark. I can’t see Shepard. I don’t like that. My gut’s warning me.

The bells jingle and smack on the glass when I rip open the door; the air conditioning inside sends goosebumps racing across my body. Shepard’s on the other side of the store, mixing a slushie together from every flavor. The tension in me goes out in a sigh. I’m just fucked up. He’s fine. I’m just fucked up.

He sees me and holds up the drink triumphantly, a Reese’s cup sleeve in his other hand. I slouch against the door, nodding to him, feeling bad if I go tracking water across the floor. The guy behind the counter gives me a lazy nod, a lazy smile. I nod back, the disquiet returning, making me jiggle my leg while I wait for Shepard to shake his wallet upside down and empty out some coins. From inside, I can see the parking lot just fine through the windows. The signage doesn’t consume the storefront like it had a minute ago. It was just my mind playing tricks on me, like the bookstore.

I stare at the ice creams in the freezer section, deciding what flavor I’d pick if I was gonna eat them. I know the expensive little pints are better than the big gallons. Quality or quantity? Floating next to the mint chocolate chip flavor (I’d kill for a mint aero) is a green face; blood red lips; Cillian Murphy cheekbones. There is a goblin accepting Shepard’s loose change, smiling lazily at me through the reflection.


	14. Fell In Love

**Fiona**

Natasha, what the hell went through your mind when you fell in love with Malcom Grimm? I hope you come back from beyond the Veil so I can ask you; I know, I know, I’ve asked you that a hundred times. No more fucking around, Tasha, I want answers. Your lovely widower husband thinks his son is straight and dating the Bunce girl.

“Boyo, the hell,” I say around the hiss of my cigarette. The little prick swipes my pack from the table and sticks one in his lips, lights it off his wand.

“Baz,” the little Bunce hisses, “you’re flammable.”

Aleister Crowley, she knows.

“So’s everyone,” Baz sneers around the pinch of his lips. He throws his head back dramatically to puff. The ash makes me nervous. It’s good to see him. I hate to look at him. That’s you, Tasha, that’s you in his gray eyes. That’s me too. The last line of Pitches, the pigment of us sucked out of his skin. He used to be a brown little raisin in our arms, screaming and drooling. Now he’s a distant island. Now he's a house without a light.

I’ll help him. Whatever he wants, I’ll help him. The hell else am I to do when he drops in unannounced, catching me daydrunk in a robe. He doesn’t even do me the disserve of looking disappointed or surprised. That's how low I am. The little Bunce is spelling my cups clean and making tea in my kitchen. Fuck. Baz is talking. Smoke’s curling out of his mouth, distorting his face, like old wallpaper peeling away. I'm trying to see him through remains of you.

Sword of Mages. Into Thin Air. Magical Limbo.

“You’re morons,” I sniff. “Mucking around with limbo.”

Baz goads me with an eyebrow. He got that from Malcolm. It’s the worst thing he’s inherited. I smoke clean through the first fag and light another, stuffing the pack deep in my robe pocket. But he’s here. He doesn’t like to see me too much. I look like you. He looks like you. You float like a ghost between all of our words.

We don't say your name. Sorry about that.

It’s good he’s here. I took all the books that would have helped him find his bloody Sword of Mages. Ha! Serves him right. He needs his aunty. He needs the dose of humility.

“Promise me you’ll let me watch you cut off that fucking cretin’s head, Bazzy.”

Out of the corner of my eye, little Bunce mouths “Bazzy” at Baz. He rolls his eyes.

I’ll help. Course I’ll help. He’s my nephew. He’s my blood. Pitches stand together. But he's a fucking moron.

“You’re going about it all wrong, chasing down one path, and the worst one that. When you hunt, you want to corner your prey.”

“It’s a magical artifact, not a white hart.”

“Doesn’t matter. You want multiple angles. C’mon Baz, think beyond the linear approach, if you’re on about metaphysics and Merlin knows what else. It’s a manhunt. Dredge the river. Bloodhounds on the ground. Door to door interrogations. Scan Interpol, check cameras, on and on. You’ve hit a dead end. Change tactics.”

“To what?” Bunce asks, wedging up between us, purple ring glowing as she floats over three mugs. Hey, tea, not bad.

“You’ll want to set tracking spells-”

“We tried that,” Baz interrupts. He’s stubbed out the last of his smoke, pushing the overflowing ashtray my way. My orange filter crumples into the detritus of long sorry days.

“Tracking spells, not finding spells. You’re trying to track an object that, according to you, may or may not exist. You’ll want to track the incantation or the magical registry. Some objects give off certain resonances or leave behind an atmospheric residue.”

“Simon’s magic smokes,” Bunce says. Baz nods.

“Yeah, sure, that. Everyone’s magic has a flavor or a smell or a sensation. The old mage Spike had an eight-ball, and that thing apparently reeked of iodine whenever it told a fortune. Too bad the Chosen One got offed and can’t send up his smoke signal for you lot.”

Their faces harden up. Even Baz’s.

“But the incantation?” he asks tightly.

“If you know it, you might be able to track its usage. It’s passive.” I know the original Fair Maiden’s Mirror is out there, hopping around from face to face every time someone casts " **Mirror Mirror"** on their reflections. I’d love to get my hands on it, but it’s summoned away before I can get close enough. “That’ll put to rest your theory about The Mage, if you think he’s got the sword hidden. If he ever uses it,” I gesture with my tea, “voi-la. Ping your little map.”

It’s not that I’m expecting a round of applause, but the two of them just look at each other in silence. Baz nods. Little Bunce nods back to him, and then Baz stares me down. “I need that spell.”

“Say please, Bazzy.”

To my shock, he does.

**The Mage**

The Welsh family’s have stopped tithing. One of the Grimms cast an unspeakable curse on the oldest Erhlich boy in my Men. And I know it’s Malcom who’s paid off three Coven members to skip on council meetings. I can’t get anything done.

Simon. You were broken. You were cracked. How did you do it? How did you defeat the Insidious Humdrum? It wasn’t the right time. You were supposed to wait for the right time. Fool boy. Strongheaded boy. Magickless? I gave you everything; how can you be magickless?

I should have kept a closer watch over him. I should have sent him away from Watford sooner. He’s useless to me without his power. His power was the answer to my problems, broken as it was. If he hadn’t been with the Bunce girl, this could have been kept quiet. The Humdrum had a purpose. Its threat had a purpose. _Simon_ was a threat I held. Now what? Now everyone’s running around like wild dogs. The Old Families are nothing but feral throneless mages. Lawless, vicious, self-serving. They want to divide us, to tear us apart. I’m not finished yet; there’s too much to be done.

**Penelope**

My father has loads of maps. It’s merely a matter of finding one not in use. He has maps that show mountain heights and ocean depths. Maps without political parameters. Maps of magical communities. Maps that show the Dead Spots and maps without. Maps crossed in frantic ink and maps pristine. Baz says we’re honest thinkers. He’s seen most of these before. We find one not in use, folded in squares. A world map, laid out as long across as Baz is tall. We spread it on my bedroom floor and set up for our spell. Basalt dust from a comet mixed with unicorn bone ash. His Aunt Fiona’s lent it to us. If Premal ever finds out I’ve been to Fiona Pitch’s dingy flat….

Baz and I have to stretch our arms to meet hands across the world map. He’s holding his wand in his fist so the tip faces the map, and my hand’s overturned so my ring illuminates the ink and lines.

**Waken, lords and ladies gay,**  
**On the mountain dawns the day;**  
**All the jolly chase is here**  
**With hawk and horse and hunting-spear,**  
**Hounds are in their couples yelling,**  
**Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,**  
**Merrily, merrily mingle they**  
**Waken, lords and ladies gay.**

I wouldn’t think this a finding spell, but it is about hunting. This is a manhunt. I will dredge the ocean to find Simon. I’ll pound down every door. I don’t know if this will help, but it’s something. It’s another step. It’s better than the floundering Baz and I have been trying.

There’s three stanza’s overall, and it takes it out of us. We’re all but collapsed at the end.

**Louder, louder chant the lay,**  
**Waken, lords and ladies gay!**  
**Tell them youth and mirth and glee**  
**Run a course as well as we;**  
**Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,**  
**Staunch as hound and fleet as hawk:**  
**Think of this, and rise with day,**  
**Gentle lords and ladies gay!**

**"In justice. In courage. In defense of the weak. In the face of the mighty. Through magic and wisdom and good."**

The dust and ash scatters across the map, laying flat and complete over it. Fiona said that if the spell gets triggered, it will reveal the location where the incantation has been said. I almost don’t want to know, I don’t want to find out what will happen if we see the incantation triggered. I’m scared by the possibility of finding the Sword without Simon at the other end of it. I’m scared this will lead us back to The Mage in the worst way possible.

Baz and I sink to the floor on opposite sides of the map, staring up at my bedroom ceiling.

I ask the thing we shouldn’t ask each other: “Do you think we’ll find him?”

Baz doesn’t answer.

**Shepard**

Using coins to pay for stuff is a dick move, but they’re weighing down my wallet. I need a new wallet. Having a little zip compartment for coins encourages coin-hoarding. I once read an article about men developing back pain prematurely from sitting on their wallets. You can pinch a nerve in your ass by sitting on a wallet, and it can go all the way up your spine. Imagine that. Breaking your back with your wallet. Capitalism strikes again.

I slide four quarters, five dimes, two nickels, and nine pennies across the plastic countertop. “Sorry for the math.”

“Shepard.”

Simon calls my name in a quiet, cold voice, urgent as an open vein.

The dead-eyed twenty-something working the cashier grins at me, too wide for his mouth. His name tag says Matt. Matt puts his hand down as if to take the coins, but instead of scooping them up, his hand comes down on my hand, pinning it to the countertop. I don’t even get to pretend that this is just a weird moment in customer-service because Simon’s next words make my heart race sickeningly up my throat.

“Don’t fucking touch him,” Simon snarls behind me. The next instant, the cashier grabs me by the wrist and yanks me off my feet, across the counter. Not good. Not ideal. This is not fucking ideal.

“Simon!” I feel him grab my ankle and yank the other way. Being the rope in a sudden game of tug of war is not how I like my Saturdays to go. I can’t get any leverage to struggle, flopped over the counter, hanging off both ends. My face smacks into the edge of the counter, bashing my lips against my teeth; blood throbs up into my mouth.

My shoe comes off in Simon’s hand. I go the rest of the way over the counter, crashing down onto the floor and the grimy OSHA mandated safety mat.

“What the hell, man,” I shout up at the cashier, only to see him pulling a wicked looking knife out from behind his back. “Oh, man, don’t do that,” I moan in despair, scrambling backwards in a crab walk, bashing into a yellow mop bucket. It falls over, spilling red-brown water everywhere. Like mud. Like blood. A human finger floats by in the dirty slush.

“He’s a goblin,” Simon yells. I can’t see Simon. All I can see is the knife, the blood, the chewed digit, and the well-structured green face reflecting in the water spilled across the floor.

“We found you, Simon Snow,” the goblin croons; I can see the shark of his teeth, the long swallow of his mouth. Simon mentioned goblins. He mentioned that they eat people and will appear as the last person they ate. That they want to kill him. That whoever does becomes king of the goblins. I sang “dance magic dance” at him.

“We? Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’ve started to finally come in pairs now,” Simon complains from the other wise of the counter, blocked from my vision by a display of BIC lighters with various stylized American Eagle logos.

The bells of the door jingle.

“Fuck a nine toed troll,” Simon growls. I can only imagine another goblin just stepped into the store. “Don’t. Touch. Him.”

I have no idea what the hell Simon Snow thinks he’s going to do, but he sounds scary as hell. He sounds exactly like someone who has killed before. Like someone planning on killing again. I can’t see him, but a shiver runs up my spine just to hear him and imagine what snarling face he’s wearing.

The goblin-formly-known-as-Matt glances at me, head tilting, smile growing. He leers at me. I scramble to my feet just in time for him to grab me by the back of my shirt. There’s a wet tearing sound of a blade through meat. There’s a hot wash of blood.


	15. Matter of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up - some gory violence in this + blood + mention of puking + mention of baz eating furry creatures  
> also writing first person pov combat is the worst thing i have ever experienced in my life.

* * *

**Simon**

It was only a matter of time. I knew it; I am not safe. And now Shepard’s in danger because of me. Some Normal working his job, living his life, has already died, been swallowed up and eaten in a back room by goblins. Because of me.

The goblin at the door is tall and broad, a grown man compared to the skinnier one looking at Shepard like he’s gonna be picking his teeth with Shepard’s bones. I’ll be damned before I let some dark creature chew on my friend just to taunt me. I am not safe, but I will keep Shepard safe.

I don’t think. I don’t need to think. I’m good in a fight. I feel so good in a fight that I forget all the other bullshit in my life because the goal is simple: survive. And I survive.

The goblin behind the counter licks his lips and turns on Shepard; the goblin at the door advances on me. I don’t think. My body moves on its own.

There was a time when I used to beg The Mage to let me stay with him over the summer. I’d cry at the end of term. To comfort me, he would tell me that maybe one day, I wouldn’t have to go back into the care homes, but until I was strong enough, I needed to hone myself. Stick close to the language. Keep my wits about me. He would say: _“Let hardship sharpen your blade, Simon.”_ I thought he meant the Sword of Mages. That was before I realized that I am the blade, I am the sword. I am a weapon. He wants to wield me. He wants me deadly, and alone, and angry. I’d like to think that when the time comes, that I’m as discerning as the Sword of Mages, that I will rightly judge whose hands may lay themselves upon me.

I am the sword.

My body moves, and I let it. My hand goes to my hip. The incantation for the Sword of Mages flies from my lips. I don’t wait, I don’t think. I lunge. I swing.

My hands tighten around the leather grip of the hilt of the Sword of Mages as I twist with the momentum of my swing. The blade whistles, slicing through the air. The goblin’s head flies off, meat and cartilage and bone crunching and splitting in a finger snap of time. The blood spurts, and I watch it coat Shepard’s horrified face through the squint and burn of my eyes as a vein pumps a jet across my own.

“Stay down,” I snarl at him. The goblin at the door has a longer blade than just a knife, and he thrusts up towards me. The blade finds empty air. I don't have the space to bring the sword down, my balance is off, so I kick out, knocking the goblin backwards. I don't want him anywhere near Shepard.

I give no quarter, chasing after him. His parry slides off my blade in a schlick-squeal of metal, but vorpal can’t be cut, can’t be scratched. It’s made of chaos and rhyme and magic. Not goblin-smelt. The goblin’s sword blows past me, cutting through my denim jacket, slicing into my bicep. But it sends his weight into me to knock back with my elbow to his chin and follow with my sword, into him, through to the other side. I cut an arc into his body through the brittle architecture of bone.

The sticky splash of blood clings to the air, a wet hollow sound originating from my shoes and the dark blood across the white linoleum floor of the gas station convenience store. Overhead, the fluorescents glare, treacherous in their witnessing. Gravity frees the goblin from the Sword of Mages, and the wound frees the creature’s guts from the cavern of its body.

Shepard’s clutching the counter, staring at me. Blood drips from his glasses.

“Simon.” His teeth chatter. I see his lips move. All I can hear is my own heartbeat. He peers over the edge of the counter to see the innards from the second goblin tangled around my feet. That was the one good thing about going off. No blood. Just made me feel like I’d gotten sunburned on the inside of my skin. Shepard nods to himself as he surveys the carnage and then bends the rest of the way over the counter and pukes.

I want to reach out to him. I want to run my hand over the curve of his skull where the hair’s shorn close and the line of his sweating neck begins and tell him he’s safe. I don’t. Not when my hands are trembling with the dizzy burn of magic. My magic. The hand holding the sword buzzes with it, like my funny-bone’s been struck.

**Shepard**

“Alright?”

“Alright?” I cough, spitting a chunk out of my mouth. I was not mentally prepared to puke today. I usually prep myself for seeing dinner a second time. I would have built a barrier of hawaiin punch between me and the spaghetti Simon and I had for dinner. Tonight just ruined mom’s spaghetti for me. What the fuck.

“Yeah,” Simon asks again, way too calm, talking through his teeth, taking his huge woofing breaths to keep himself steady - fuckfuckfuck - “alright?”

“Nah, my friend, I am not fucking alright.”

Get your shit together, Shepard. You’ve seen fucked up stuff before. Get your shit the fuck together.

I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, sliding back onto my feet. Simon’s everything slushie (I call this flavor sir mixalot) is still sitting on the counter, having been spared the carnage. Mostly. There’s some blood around the clear plastic dome, but the contents haven’t been tainted; I take a brain freezing sip, nodding to myself, nodding to Simon’s worried gaze, nodding along to the Chamillionaire throwback rapping tinny from the speakers.

“They are indeed trying to catch us,” I mumble around the plastic straw in my mouth, chewing on the edge as I stare at the decapitated body at my feet. The green skin isn’t doing much to distance the spectacle from slaughter. The head is….oh there it is. With the Doritos.

Am I shaking or is the cup trying to jump out of my hands?

“Shepard,” Simon barks. I tear my eyes away from the blood and the gore and the deadness.

“Simon,” I laugh, shaking my head, shaking all over. Simon braces a hand on the counter and vaults over, coming to stand nearly on top of me. He hovers, hesitant, before gripping the back of my neck and bringing my face into his shoulders. “Dude,” I whisper into my dad’s jacket. It smells of old cologne. Indistinct and masculine. Beneath that, the chlorine of pool water. It blocks out the blood.

“You’re alright,” Simon murmurs.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“Alright.”

“This is your life?”

“Yeah.” Simon blows out a breath. “It is.” He sounds so tired.

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Alright.” I take a breath of him and push back, firmly keeping my eyes on him and not what’s splattered all around the store. “Alright.”

“Alright,” Simon says one last time, laughing horribly. “I’m so sorry.” He looks sorry.

“Me too!”

He shakes his head, looking down. He sets his jaw and looks at me with stormy eyes. I’m in the thick of hail and hell. I never left it. I’m sixteen and dying a slow death and a man is selling me a dream I can’t afford. I’m ten years ticking away.

“We need to get the fuck out of here,” I tell him, starting to panic. “Simon. Man. There’s bodies.”

“Yeah.”

“You conjured your sword.”

“I think I have magic again.”

“Simon! Fix this shit, man. I don’t - I can’t - we gotta get out of here.”

Simon rubs a hand across his face and through his curls, groaning, pulling on his face. “I’m not good at magic.”

“You’re gonna learn today.” I sip on the slushie just to give myself something to focus on. After a beat, I hold it out to Simon who slurps off the straw appreciatively. The air’s bone-dry and smells like burned newspaper, all ink and ash, chemical and green. Magic. Magic. Simon does not look happy to have his magic back.

“That’s not bad,” Simon says, taking the slushie from me entirely and rattling it a little, the ice and syrup sloshing around.

“Can you magic this away?”

He shakes out his shoulders and hands me the cup. “I don’t have a choice.”

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Nope.”

Simon shoves me behind him and uses his sword like a wand, pointing the shining, bloody tip at the body right at our feet. He’s acting cool, but his face is pale; I can’t tell his freckles from blood spray. I can’t tell the boy from the myth.

**“Into thin air!”**

**Baz**

**“Doe, a deer!”**

At this rate, the population will plummet. I’ve got to find a reliable spell for bringing bucks to me. I’ve tried variations from “A Wounded Deer - Leaps Highest,” but without my quarry in sight, the spell only spoils my mood. There’s some dignity in bringing the deer to me, some kind of surrender, a sacrifice that I can pretend they’ve done willingly to preserve me. Far more than wounding them from a distance and worse, hunting them down. I’ll not be reduced to some slithering predator in the night. I don’t want to know the creep of my own body, the perfection of feral and fang that extends from me. Contrary to Snow’s accusations, I do not stalk. I don’t glorify in this.

I don’t want this at all.

So I bring them with a child’s song and close my eyes and hold the heavy swoon of them to me.

I drink the doe and open my eyes to the dark glistening eye of a fawn in the distance. It’s nearly lost its spots.

I drink that too despite the sloshing of my blood-bloated belly. I spare the babe from motherlessness, as I might have been spared. And then I lay down in a blood-drunk haze between their cool bodies, clovers sprung beneath me, summer grass cool and sweet. The firmament rages above, a crescent moon slip shuttering between the black bowers. I point my wand to the sky, wishing upon Simon’s Star that I can’t see but can imagine above me, tugging at the make-believe of magic we all burned up for him.

“Twinkle twinkle, little star….may it shine where you are.”

Even if we never find Simon, maybe Bunce has still given me a gift. I can pretend he’s somewhere now. I can pretend he’s alive and the sun’s caught in his hair. I can lay here beneath the stars and dream him under the sky with me just as I have dreamed his hand in mine, dreamed his smile for me, dreamed the adoring cast of his eyes befalling me. Maybe this is for the best. Simon Snow, free from the world. No more hurting, no more going off, no more nightmares.

I can play out a thousand more twisted fantasies of him crushing me in his hands, between his thighs, beneath his heel.

I should talk to Wellbelove, see if she has any pointers for me, ask her how the hell do you move on from Simon Snow.

But I’m selfish. I don’t want to move on. Hunger that goes deeper than blood runs through me.

“Snow, you fuck,” I curse at the sky, tongue lisping between my fangs. I wish - I wish you would - Simon Snow. I stiffen my wand and spy upon a star. **“Drop out of thin air.”**

It’s a spell no one uses because it’s as reliable as a mongoose driving a moped. It’s the fool’s counter to **Into thin air** because it has a mind of its own. It doesn’t reliably recall objects that have been spelled away because it’s nature is nonsense. It’s nature is unpredictable. It’s a dangerous spell. There’s no rhyme or reason to what might happen. It exactly the kind of stupid spell Snow would cast in a panic.

I cast it with him in mind and a heavy body crashes down atop my chest. _Someone_ (not suggesting it was me) screams. I flinch under the weight, the surprise punching through me in tandem with proper horror. If my fangs weren’t already popped, they would be now as the scent of blood overwhelms me. Metallic and hot and carrying an achingly familiar smokey-smell that wrenches a sob from me. I shove the body off of me, heaving, and conjure a ball of fire to my hand, almost too scared to look.


	16. Stop Calling

* * *

* * *

**Penelope**

“It’s three in the morning, Basil, stop calling me,” is a perfectly appropriate way to answer your phone when your sleuthing companion of questionable levels of undeadness won’t stop calling you.

“He’s alive,” Baz snaps into the phone. “He’s fucking alive.”

“W-what? Who?” I’ve never woken up so fast.

“Snow. He’s alive, Bunce. I’m looking at a fucking decapitated goblin who reeks of Snow’s magic. Look at the map. Wake up and look at the bloody map.”

“I’m looking, I’m waking, I am looking and waking!” I spell on the bedside lamp and peer over the edge of my bed. Lo and behold, the dust and ash has scattered and parted to reveal a black splotch in...America?

“There’s a wallet. The body. Whoever the goblin ate, his name is Matt Kantz from Omaha, Nebraska,” Baz rambles off to me.

“The map is showing the incantation went off in America,” I confirm. I assume the location is Nebraska. I thought Nebraska was in Canada? I don’t understand the Americas. Chicago is in Illinois and then I’m bust. “What in magic’s name is he doing in America?”

“Killing goblins. The idiot. That beautiful fucking-”

I think Baz is crying. I’m not ready to cry yet. Not until I can see Simon, until I can touch him, until I can have him smiling and laughing and eating and steady beside me again.

“Baz,” I cut off the soft gasping on the other side of the phone. “Baz. What’s he doing in America?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“No, I mean….,” I sit up on the edge of my bed, staring at the map. A goblin. The smell of Simon’s magic. “Hold on. How - goblin? How did you get a goblin from America? Where are you?”

“Hampshire. It’s- I casted ‘Drop out of thin air.’” He sounds appropriately embarrassed.

“Basil! That’s dangerous. Anything could have happened.”

“I know that, Bunce.”

We purposely have not tried to use that spell in any of our experiments because it is, while not forbidden or banned, strongly suggested not to be used. It’s an errant spell, a mis-spell. It misfires. It can bring anything. He's lucky a stake didn't fly into his heart.

“ _Huh_. Do you think if Simon was getting rid of the body, he’d casted ‘into thin air?’ Is it a loop? Oh, Merlin, this is brilliant!”

“Bunce. Focus. We’re going to America.”

“Obviously.” I throw off the covers and ease around the map, careful not to disturb it. “America. Nebraska? America! Simon is in America! Why? Why is he there? Do you think The Mage knows? Do you think he’s in hiding? Why didn’t he call us?”

“Ask him when we find him. Listen to me, Bunce. We can’t let anyone know Snow's alive.”

“No.”

“We’re going on a trip.”

“Yes.”

“Snow didn’t tell you he was alive,” Baz says roughly, and it hurts to hear. “He’s alive, and he didn’t tell _you_. That means something.”

“I know,” I whisper. “I know.”

He could be hurt. He could have been fighting all this while, fighting dark creatures. Hell, there’s no way for Baz to know if the goblin is old or not. Time doesn’t work right in the Limbo. ‘Out of thin air’ is an unreliable spell. We’re jumping to conclusions. This could be anything. But it has to be Simon. I need it to be. No, no. The map - Simon drew his sword tonight. Today. No clue what time it is in Nebraska. This is all happening right now.

“What if he had his memories erased?” I gasp.

Baz doesn't entertain me. “I can’t handle you having a meltdown. Pack a bag. I’m finding us flights to the US.”

“Wait, now?”

“Yes, now!”

“My parents aren’t going to let me fly to America on the possibility that Simon's alive.”

“Lie? Convince them? You have two hours.”

“Two hours?”

“First flight out of London is at six-thirty this morning.”

“Baz-”

“I’ll pick you up at five.”

“Basilton-”

“Be ready Bunce or I’m leaving you.” And then he hangs up.

**Mitali**

“Mum…”

I hear Penelope, but I can’t seem to open my eyes.

“I love you. I’ll be back.”

I’m dreaming sweetly.

“I’m finding Simon.”

Find him...

When I wake, my daughter will be missing. For now, I am in the cradle of her **Sweet Dreams**. She will be so very grounded. She will come back to me, and I will not let her leave the house for a hundred years.

**Daphne**

I catch Basilton slinking out of the front door on my way back from my morning run. I like to catch the sunrise in summer when I have my lemon and yerba cool down tea.

“Where do you think you’re going, young man?”

He shifts his weight, a backpack heavy over his shoulders. “I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

“Answer the question, Basilton.”

He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. He looks tired. Malcolm says not to worry, but how can you not? Regardless of if they were friends or not, his roommate died. I don’t agree with Malcolm about all this nonsense of Basil being involved in the politics going on. He needs to focus on school, on being a boy. Magic knows he has his own special issues to deal with, anything else will just drag those into speculation.

“I told you that I’m attempting to locate the Sword of Mages. I have a lead. In America.” He puffs up with his conviction. He’s a child. I’m endeared and saddened at once. Some things between Malcolm and his son aren’t my place. I don’t know how to touch everything that is and was Natasha.

How do you touch the child of a legend? That’s what she is to so many people. A myth of a woman. And Basil is the last drop of her blood. Malcolm wants to believe he’s unbreakable; he wants to ignore all the signs that his son hasn’t healed from the loss of his mother. I don’t know how to touch the wound. I'm afraid to make it bigger.

“I left my flight printouts on the table,” he adds, looking down at me. “I’ll call when I land.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He dips his head down for me. He always does. He’s cold against my post-run skin. He’s always cold. He’s the blood of a dead woman.

I don’t know how to touch him.

“Have Donegal drive you,” I remember at the last minute. “I will not have Malcolm huffing about the bloody car before I return to my resting heart rate.”

He salutes me lazily as he passes. “Yes, mother.”

**Simon**

My first **“Into thin air”** works like a charm, literally. And the next. I get rid of the second body. Shepard’s keeping an eye out the glass front. We locked the door and turned off all the lights, including the ones out by the gas pumps, so maybe people will think it’s closed.

“What about all the blood,” Shepard urges. He’s cooled down a little. He’s eating a candy bar now. I told him he needed sugar. I’m always hungry after this kind of fiasco. Course, my magic burns up a lot of calories. So does all the adrenaline. Fighting for your life gives you an unbeatable workout.

The Sword of Mages works for me better than the wand The Mage gave me ever did, and I can’t point with the wrong end like this. I try **“Out, out, damned spot,”** but it only lifts the blood off Shepard and I. I like the jacket he gave me from his dad, so that’s alright.

“We have to get rid of the security footage too,” Shepard points out, pointing up over the counter where a single camera watches us and the door.

“Can I just wack it down?”

“No. Didn’t you see the big tower in the manager’s office?” That’s where we hit all the light switches. “I say we burn the building down.”

“What?” I turn on him, shocked. He throws his hands up, at a loss.

"I know I'm thick, but wouldn't burning down a petrol station be...," I make an exploding noise with my mouth and wave my sword violently around.

“What-what? Fuck. Simon, we’re-” Shepard gestures at the whole store with the end of his Snickers. “We’re super fucked. I literally - literally, my dude - do not have time to go to jail. You’ll get extradited and my black ass will go to jail. That’s not on my ten-year calendar. Sorry. Fix this.”

My magic’s thrumming hot in my hand; the Sword has a golden glow to the metal, like it’s been sitting in a forge all day. I’m nervous using magic again; so far so good, but what if - what if the Humdrum comes back? What if I ruin everything all over again?

I already have. I dragged Shepard into my mess. (I am not safe.)

 **“Into thin air”** is a heavy duty spell; for me, all spells are heavy. All spells just yank and yank on me, taking too much; or I give too much. I overflow. But I feel good. I feel electric. I feel powerful.

“Alright.” I grab a bag of crisps and beef jerky and throw them at Shepard who struggles to catch them. “You need to go.”

“Go? I can’t go.” He ducks around me to grab a packet of medical gauze. Oh. Yeah. I'm bleeding.

“Nope. Out.” I shove him into the door, forgetting it’s locked. He huffs and struggles and then we spill out into the humid summer night. The parking lot’s empty, thank Merlin. “Go home.”

“Simon, what are you about to do?”

“I’m going to fix this, like you said.” I can fix this. I defeated the Humdrum. I can fix this. I’m not going to think too hard. The Sword of Mages chose me again. If I can trust anything, I will trust that; that it returned to me when I needed it and brought me my magic; that it’s going to help me protect Shepard. I just don’t want him near me in case it goes awry. I don’t want him to touch me. I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to hurt anyone. “You go home. I’ll meet you there. If I get caught, I can escape. You can’t.”

He holds my eye for a long time before nodding. That’s the nice thing about Shepard. He listens to me. I wish more people listened to me.

I leave him outside and lock myself back into the convenience store. I use **“Clean as a whistle”** to gather all the blood and guts together with the sword point, hovering it into the yellow mop bucket, including the human finger. It's...awful. I puke into the bucket when the smell finally breaks through my thinned nerves. I spell it away.

I debate the camera for a long time, regretting how much I didn’t pay attention in class. I cast **“If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it,”** on the computer tower, but I have no idea if it worked. For a loss, feeling properly thick, I resort back to vanishing it the same as I did the bodies and the blood. I wonder where all this stuff goes when I use " **Into thin air**." I bet into the Bermuda Triangle.

**Shepard**

I don’t know how long it takes to magically clean up a magical crime scene with a magic sword-wand, but the thirty minutes that it takes Simon to do it seems reasonable. I lowkey hyperventilate across the street, forging an alibi by telling Kylie we’re home. When he comes out, I assume he spells the door locked. He looks around a little, then looks at the sword in his hand and then - poof - it’s gone. Simon looks smaller without a sword.

He looked badass with one. Now he just looks small, hands in the pockets of his jacket, curls dried wild around his head from swimming. I wave; he sees me.

“Thought I told you to go home,” he huffs, jogging across the street to me.

“You don’t know how to get back to my house,” I tell him. He looks away. “You weren’t planning to come back, were you?”

“No,” he admits quietly. “I don’t think I should.”

“Decide that tomorrow.”

He blows out a hard breath and squares up on me. “I can’t be the reason you get hurt. What if your mum had been here? Kylie?”

“I already thought of that,” I argue back, hot that he thinks I haven’t thought of that. That was my first thought. I know I like to chase trouble, but I don't like bringing it to my front door. To my family. “Those goblins came because you were here and they ate some poor random motherfucker just because. If you skip out right now, who’s to say there’s not more goblins lurking around the next corner? Be a gentleman and walk me home before you run off into the night, Batman.”

He doesn't have an answer to that. He just curses and rubs a hand at the back of his neck, looking up at the sky. I take a step backwards, and then another, eyes on him. He mumbles another curse and tags up beside me.

“Sleep on it,” I say. “I’ll buy you a ticket to London tomorrow, but sleep on it first.”

“I’ll pay you back,” he rushes to say. I shake my head. I’ve no clue if he’s really good for it, but I think he’d die trying to right a wrong.

“You have your magic back,” I say. I list into him and knock our shoulders together. He sucks in a breath and blows it out in a huge loud dramatic gust.

“I think. I don’t have any right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t really feel it but - I think if I conjured my sword again, it’d be there if I needed it.”

“But you don’t know?”

“Nope.”

“You want to try summoning it?”

“Kind of like not knowing.”

“Schrodinger’s Sword.”

Simon snorts ruefully. He’s a collection of rough sounds.

“Don’t sound too happy about that,” I guess easily.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “It’s just.” He shrugs again. “Dunno.”

“Fair enough.” I pass him the beef jerky and he tears into it gratefully. “You okay, Simon?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

I shrug. He snorts. I look at the stars. I like not living right in the city. You can see some of the stars at night. It’s even better a few more miles out. And better a few more miles past that. As I keep looking, I see the haloed edge of clouds flash in the distance. It’s such a warm night.

“Simon.”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go watch a storm.” I point. He follows my finger. I hear him suck in another long breath and hold it. When the lightning flashes again, revealing the edge of a thunderhead, he lets his breath out into the midnight air.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees. Then, a minute later, adds “I should have grabbed more snacks.”

**Simon**

A thunderless sky hangs above us. I think we could have driven for the rest of our lives and never caught the underside of the storm. We'd stopped at his house to clean up and get his car. My arm has got two “yards” of gauze tied around it, courtesy of Shepard. Now, way out here off a little country road, lighting pops softly, caught in the thick of clouds. It blows them up like cotton over a candle, layers and layers where the light catches and reveals peekaboos of blue and amber and deep indifferent gray.

Shepard and I don’t talk, and we don’t touch. We don’t touch until I’m so full of the not touching my skin prickles. The grass pokes into me; my wet pants have done unspeakable things to my bollocks. My feet feel like swamps in my shoes. Ten-toed swamps.

I groan and roll over to face Shepard’s profile. He glances at me from the corner of his eye, unwilling to turn from the storm overhead.

“I feel like you are not vibing appropriately,” Shepard says slow and cool.

I grunt at him. He sighs and rolls over to face me, cushioning his cheek on his arm, mirroring me.

“My vacation from my life is over.” It’s proper whiny but it comes out dramatic as hell. Shepard nods and sighs.

“Back to being the Chosen One?” He doesn’t throw it in my face; from him, it sounds as awful as it is.

“More like the Cursed One.”

Shepard laughs. He rolls onto his back and laughs, fingers clawed into the dirt and the grass.

“It’s not funny,” I huff, shimmying closer to him. He keeps laughing, curling up away from me. He drags his knees to his chest and locks his arms around them like a pillbug.

“Simon.” He sounds heavy with thought. “I have to tell you something.” His laughter runs outs. He gasps on the grass for a second, worrying me.

“What? Hey, what, are you hurt?” I pull him back by his shoulder. I spelled the blood off him but maybe I missed something, maybe he got hurt in those seconds I couldn’t see him. Shepard shakes his head, looking up past me to the sky again.

“You’re not cursed,” he says, not looking at me. “They can say you’re chosen, but until you choose for yourself, you’re not cursed.”

“I don’t - huh?”

“Simon, I’m going to tell you something, and I’m not telling you because you have magic and I think you can fix it. I’m telling you because I know you, man, a little bit, and I know what it’s like to feel like you’re looking down the barrel of a gun waiting for it to go off.”

“Shepard.” I sit up fully to look at him. His eyes still fix somewhere out of reach, to stars unseen and storms crawling their indomitable way across the night. Shepard says it might be hailing where we can’t see or hear. The sky is falling down, and we're playing chicken with our secrets beneath it.

“So,” Shepard sighs. “I used to be sick. Real sick.”

“Yeah,” I can tell me knowing surprises him. “your mom kind of said. Uhm. She mentioned it. The other morning. I was apologizing for being underfoot, and she said she didn’t mind much, that she never felt right stopping you from being trouble anymore after all you went through, that she likes having kids around now.”

He laughs again, wet this time. “Michele’s a piece of work. Man….it was killing her too,,” he blows out a hard breath. “So I made a choice. Not an informed one; I don’t think a sixteen year old can make an informed choice. Not a scared one especially.”

I’ve got that sinking feeling in my gut, the one that always knows when something bad is about to pop out of the dark. The headache from the runes on Shepard’s tattoo comes pounding back into my head. This night has stretched too long. Shepard blows out another breath that makes his chest look skinny under his shirt. He’d been easy to hold on my shoulders.

“I uh, it was halloween. Go figure. It was one the good days; you know, you get a couple of months where you can start telling yourself it’ll last before the day you wake up confused again or puking your guts out or just knowing you’re dying and trying not to do it too obviously. Trying not to do it too fast so everyone has time to catch up on the news. Right,” he blows out another breath and I wonder how he has any air in him at all to keep talking.

“I should have known he was a demon. He looked like a plantation owning Scooby-Doo villain complete with a pencil mustache.”

“Fuck,” I groan, the bad sinking feeling taking me back down to the grass. A demon. There’s a really good reason why demon summoning got out-lawed. Kind of an obvious reason. The pencil mustache makes me a little nervous. My mind flies off to a leaping conclusion. “Was he fit?”

Shepard’s real quiet when he says, “What?” like he can’t believe how stupid I am. Me either.

“The demon. Was he good looking? He have a cleft chin?” I don’t know why I’m freaking out about something I know isn’t true. The Mage isn’t a demon.

“No, Simon, he was an old white man.”

“Oh, ok.”

“Why?”

“Got worried I knew him. Nevermind. I’m - ignore me.”

“You know a lot of demons?“

“I don't think I do.”

Shepard makes a long sound in his throat. “That's what they all say. Anyway - no the demon who cured my Leukemia was not hot. He was oddly thoughtful, I’ll give him that. It kicked in at my next treatment session so it wasn’t like I suddenly woke up brand spanking new. Kind of covered his own ass. But uh…”

I know how demons work. I touch him finally. His shoulder, over the tattoo. “How many years?”

“Ten.”

“Shepard! You can get a hundred off one.”

He shrugs helplessly. “I didn’t think it was real. I didn’t think - ten years felt like a hundred then. Ten years of being healthy? I can’t die for ten years - that was a dream I didn't think could be real. Nothing. This,” he pats his chest with his palms, scrunching his t-shirt in the grip of his fist, “indestructible. Could'a let those goblins get me. Could have casted a bomb of a spell and I'd still be standing. I'm basically a human Twinkie."

“I’ll fix it.”

He shakes his head. “My man, did you not listen?”

“No.” I did. But I’ll pretend I didn’t. “You’re coming with me.”

“Where?”

“Back to Watford. Or Penny. You’re coming with me to Penny. She knows everything. Or Dr. Wellbelove. He’s a magical doctor.”

“Simon.”

“Sleep on it,” I say, staring him down. He rolls his eyes.

“You’re crazy.”

“Sleep on it.”


	17. Making Deals

* * *

**The Mage**

Malcolm Grimm isn't the only one capable of making deals.

**Penelope**

“Coach?”

Baz stares me down. “Forgive me for not shelling out another thousand pounds for you to have extra leg room.” He pointedly glances at my short bare thighs poking out from my skirt. “As if you need it.”

“I’m not complaining-”

“Sounds like you are-”

“I’m just surprised _you’d_ fly coach.”

He shakes his head judgmentally at me as he slides his sunglasses out from a blue scarf and onto his face. He tips his nose up like he's avoiding accidentally breathing anyone else's carbon dioxide as he ties the scarf around his neck in a foppish and complicated little truss. He looks like he's about to go yachting.

“Baz, we are inside.”

“It’s horrifically bright in here.” I swear he’s smiling.

“Will a flight be an issue?”

“For what?” He turns his big black plastic fly-eyes to me.

“For your _condition_.”

From over the edge of the sunglasses frame, his eyebrow peeks into the conversation. “I haven’t the faintest clue to what you refer.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Thank you, Bunce.”

I knock my bag into the back of his knee and he buckles.

**Baz**

It’s ridiculous that as mages, we’re still subjected to the stale spectacle of common flight. Perhaps the Humdrum was onto something with the teleportation bit. Now if Bunce and I can figure _that_ out, that’d be a real miracle.

Despite the moment of tease before we boarded, both Bunce and I have lapsed into a tense silence. We have fifteen hours of flight to panic within the limitations of our own minds. I’ve the wallet of a dead man in my bag and the smell of goblin blood and Snow’s magic lingering inside of my nose, a chemical burn straight to the brain.

I should have savored the peace of my private meltdown more; we’re no sooner in the air than Bunce turns in her seat to stare holes into the side of my face.

“Baz.”

My head’s tipped against the seat and my glasses are opaque black. I hope she thinks I’ve fallen into blissful unconsciousness. Maybe I can play dead. I'm a vampire. I should get to play dead when it's convenient, like a possum on the side of the road.

“Basilton.”

When I ignore her further, her impertinence overwhelms her common decency and she steals the sunglasses from my face, nearly poking my eye out with the frame’s arm in her aggressive efforts to subject me to unobscured inspection.

“I’m asleep,” I sneer. It's lost its effect on her. Pity. Friendship is a mistake.

“What are you going to tell him,” she asks, apropos of nothing. I’ll play dumb. Maybe if I act as dumb as Snow, she’ll give up.

“Tell who what?”

“Simon. Are you going to tell him you love him?”

Merlin, Morgana, and Methuselah, now I know why we never got on before and it had nothing to do with the lines of loyalty between her and Snow. She’s brutally bull-headed when it suits her interests. Her desire to know all and see all and act upon all decimates whatever mercy she might harbor for her fellow mage.

“He’s going to wonder why you’re here. There. Why you’re with me, looking for him,” she carries on, committed to her murder of my poor queer heart, to the years of my unhinged silence casted in careful violence.

I feel bloody with the years between Snow and I, as if I'd been battling him this whole time while holding the wrong end of a sword and swinging blindly to keep everything at a distance without acknowledging the damage I've done to myself in the process. I can feel myself sinking onto the blade, inch by excruciating inch as we, here and now, fly through the air. Inch by inch closer to what I hope is a whole and holy Simon Snow.

I contemplate opening the window and letting the mechanics of gravity and speed whip me out and cast me among clouds until I fall, puppet-cut, into the earth at last for fear of not arriving in time. For fear of arriving. For fear.

“Bunce,” I say with as much cool resolve as I can muster while the very idea of facing Simon Snow shatters me apart twelve hundred meters over the North Atlantic Ocean, “When I see Simon Snow, he’ll know exactly why I’m there.”

She blinks at me, puffed up on her own intention. “Why?”

“To kill him, of course.”

**Penelope**

“To kill him, of course,” Baz says, refusing to open his eyes, pretending with a smirk.

“Basilton,” I say, sliding the sunglasses carefully back onto his face. He lets me. He even tips his head into the motion. It’s almost soft of him. I wish he'd let himself be soft. Maybe one day. Maybe when we find Simon. “Shut the fuck up.”

Baz’s smirk wobbles and distorts as he pokes his tongue up beneath his top lip to, I assume, prod at where his fangs hide. It’s a bit of a nervous tick.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he complains quietly.

I think he’s petrified. I think I’m right.

It’s a long flight.

**Simon**

We don’t return to Shepard’s house till almost three AM and grunt at each other in the dark of his hallway. It takes locking my knees and leaning against the wall not to collapse while Shepard wakes up his mom to tell her we're home. That part amazes me. Getting to run around with your friends and getting to go home to a mom who wants you to wake her up and give her a kiss and let her know you got in safe. It's wild.

Then it's us in the dark again, light coming in from the window to paint over Shepard’s glasses. We stand facing each other, Shepard all but swaying on his feet.

I think I was meant to find him. Meant to die just so I could find this boy in America. Me, chosen against my will. Him, cursed by choice.

This time, I put my hand on his shoulder. I see his teeth a little when he smiles, shakes his head. I think about kissing him. Indistinctly, vaguely, how it would feel, the shape of it. The thought makes me squirm. It's almost right but it's not quite. Wrong boy. I think about it, just this once, fully, so I can let the thought go. It's momentous. It happens entirely unwitnessed inside of me; the bulb flicked on and off and the filament of the thought leaves me dizzy and warm and wanting with clarity.

He lets me run my hand up to grip his neck and tug him to my chest.

“Feeling sentimental my good friend?” He whispers, chin poking my shoulder. He pats my back when he hugs me. It's a good thing I did not kiss him.

“Glad a goblin didn't eat you.”

“Would have liked to see one try.”

I let him go. “Wish I'd known you couldn't die.”

“Where's the fun in that?”

I grunt. He laughs. We fall our respective asses into our respective beds. Sleep on it. Alright. Wish I could.

Sleep on it. I try. We’ll figure it out tomorrow. Everything can wait another day.

I think my way through ten problems and into a hundred more before I fall asleep, hearing the creak of Mrs. Riley making coffee.

**Shepard**

I shuffle into the guest room. Simon has the pillows dragged over his head. I'm taking the no-cops pounding down the door as a good sign. It's almost noon. The nightmare of last night has faded a little.

“Wanna wake up?”

There an unhappy mumble under the pile of pillows.

“Aight. I might mow the lawn.” Only old men mow at high noon in summer.

More mumbles from Simon.

I'm lying. I'm dead lying. I want to go back to sleep. It took me ages to fall asleep last night, sure that a many-toothed demon would snatch me from my bed and chew me into pieces, my mom left to watch.

It would chew and chew and I just wouldn't die.

Sleep. I need sleep.

“Simon.” I don’t know what’s in my voice, but he sticks his head out from under the pillow, squinting at me. He takes one look at me and makes room beside him. There’s no magical sword under the bed. It still feels safe when I crawl in with him.

“Nothing’s going to get you,” he promises me, his shoulder against mine. “Not while I’m around, got it?”

It’s a child’s promise. We’re children. It’s a promise I know he’ll die keeping. It’s not his to make. I accept it anyway.

**Penelope**

Baz kind of thought of everything now that we're here. I feel out of my depth and the shock of it makes me weak; what now? Where now? Go knocking on doors? But Baz has a car rented and waiting and the finesse of it has me falling behind him in mute gratitude. Baz Pitch, at the ready.

How different things might have been if we had his clinical mind all these years. If he had had us. So many secrets, so much suspicion. I can't count the ways. I don't have time.

“Your spirit spell,” he's saying from behind the wheel of a tiny cube of a KIA. Talk about leg room. Even driving, Baz’s knees are practically knocking into his fangs. How can he hear himself over the rattling of his pointy kneecaps next to his ears? “Can you find him from that?”

He drives like a belligerent grandpa out of the airport and into the reasonable and stifling bright afternoon. Middle America. What a place to be. I think I should have told Micah I’d be here. There’d been no time. This isn’t a visit; it’s a search and rescue. (I haven’t even told him about Simon. Good. Now I never have to.)

I'm starving. My skin itches. I feel stale. Baz is paler than a bullet wound.

“McDonalds.”

“What?”

“Find a McDonalds. Oh, there’s one.” I point to the looming golden arches. That was easy. “Food and a stationary vehicle. Let’s go, Pitch.”

He sneers and slaps on his indicator and then forgets how the roads work in America and almost kills us.

It’s fine. It’s all fine.

**Baz**

It’s too bright here and my fingers smell like dirty fryer oil. I asked for vinegar and the grim-faced teenager in a headset stared at me until I wanted to flash fang to get my way like a Victorian maiden flirting with her ankles.

Bunce had a point. The salt intake’s calming me down. The flight left me woozy despite the one and a half deer I drank this morning. Yesterday? No, this morning. This is the day that will never end. Travelling backwards in time nauseates me; Bunce looks like a plump Christmas ham right now. I eat my skinny soggy terrible chips and wonder if I can discreetly escape to consume some of the squirrels robbing the nearest trashcan.

“I don’t like this country,” I tell her.

“This country doesn’t like this country,” she mutters around a wad of hamburger in her mouth. Disgusting. Is this what proximity to Snow does to sensible people? Look at me, I’ve got crumbs in my lap. Snow’s a contagion on good manners. I’m going to drain him when I see him and not spill a drop just to reassemble some order in the world and prove a point about his bad influence.

To say a KIA Picanto has a back seat is to be overly generous with the concept of space. We turn down the seats and lever up the hatched boot to spread our recently purchased Nebraskan state map out. Bunce’s eyes have rolled into their sockets and I think about licking the red veins straining around the white. I need to feed and she’s busy communing with the Midwestern accent.

I have a tracking spell. It’s a spell I don’t want to use in mixed company. In any company. It’s a spell I don’t want to use because using it will reveal the fetid bowels of my obsession with Snow and there’s no coming back from that harsh reality.

The sun is too bright in Nebraska. It should have set by now. Bunce is gasping her way back to awareness, empty-handed and glassy-eyed.

“That normally works,” she says by way of apology, chewing her lip. “My magic feels funny. Micah said his magic felt funny when he visited England.” Her little American. Useless to me even now. He doesn't deserve her.

It’s almost five in the afternoon and the summer sun stretches long and pink behind Omaha’s skyline. I informed my parents of our arrival and then staunchly ignored the concerned text from Daphne that said: Mitali Bunce does not know Penelope is with you, does she?

(“She never would have let me leave,” Bunce had said with righteous conviction. “Not after...not after what happened.”)

She doesn’t talk about the details of what happened, not really. It concerns me; I don’t want to be concerned about Penelope Bunce, but here I am. McDonald’s grease in my cuticles in Middle America, concerned about Penelope Bunce and Simon Snow.

I’m pathetic.

I’m so truly, embarrassing pathetic. My mother weeps in her tomb. She should have lit me up with her.

“Blondie,” I sigh, signing over my death certificate for Bunce to fan herself with.

“I’m sorry?”

“Blondie,” I repeat, brushing off my hands one last time and clambering into the open trunk, having to duck and fold and collapse myself to fit. “I might know a spell.”

“Blondie. Like the band?”

“Do not mention this to anyone. Now hold my hand.”

“Basilton,” she says wearily. She sounds like Daphne. She takes my hand. Her smooth chubby fingers thread with the cold bones of mine. I’ve seen her and Snow hold hands for years. No wonder Wellbelove looks deranged half the time. Bunce is warm and soft and pleasant to hold. I think I’d keep her safe. I will eat a chattering trashcan squirrel later so that I don’t eat her. She has no idea how much that means. (I don’t either.)

It’s fine. Her mother hates The Mage almost as much as I do, so this might be a friendship of good sense. Maybe this is a good thing. Professor Bunce doesn’t care for me. That’s very wise of her. I don’t think I’m the type of boy mothers want around their daughters. I don’t think I’m the type of boy mothers want. Period.

“You’re going to sing with me, Bunce. Don’t fuck up the lyrics.” I put away my thoughts and pull out my phone. I know the lyrics. I highlight the section for her and watch her eyes bug. She looks at the phone; she looks at me.

“Is this really a spell?”

“Fiona taught it to me.”

I hold my wand over the map and close my eyes and let the hand holding the wand slacken and the hand holding Bunce tighten.

Bunce has a terrible voice.

**“One way, or another, I'm gonna find ya**   
**I'm gonna get ya get ya get ya get ya**   
**One way, or another, I'm gonna win ya**   
**I'm gonna get ya get ya get ya get ya**   
**One way, or another, I'm gonna see ya**   
**I'm gonna meet ya meet ya meet ya meet ya”**

**Penelope**

We take off driving outside of the city, Baz’s wand guiding him at the wheel like the North Star’s descended into the glowing tip.

**Baz**

Simon Snow is alive and in a little blue house.

And Bunce is rushing the front door.


	18. Hollering

* * *

* * *

**Simon**

Mrs. Riley wakes us up late in the afternoon. I think she's been hollering at us for hours. I could sleep for the rest of the day honestly.

“Shepard Joseph Riley, wake up.”

Shepard groans in a lump of blankets. I crack an eye open and Mrs. Riley’s nostrils flare like a dragon scenting blood. She yanks off the blanket over us both.

“What in the - what happened to your face?” She takes Shepard's cheek in her hand and turns his sleepy face to her, inspecting his busted fat lip from when he'd smacked into the counter. Then she spots the bloody bandage in my arm. “Simon!”

“Fence, mom,” Shepard lies in a grumble. “We tried to hop a fence and busted our asses.”

“And you're sleeping together - why?”

“Wow, mom, homophobia? In the year twenty-fifteen of our Lord?” Shepard has some gall to mouth off to Mrs. Riley when she's steaming. Agatha gets like that sometimes with her folks. I guess when you know you're loved, you can abuse it a little.

Mrs. Riley sucks her teeth. “You know very well I don't care who you run around with but teenagers are not going to be sleeping in the same bed like it's Dawson's River in my house.”

Shepard groans worse than if a Goblin were eating him. “Mo-o-om.”

“Nightmare,” I rasp. I try to make my face like a sad Disney dog or whatever Shepard says. “I was having nightmares.”

“Oh, baby,” she tuts, looking a little sorry for laying into us, which makes me feel ten times more sorry.

“Yeah,” Shepard says, finally poking his head up properly. “Nightmares. Not hanky panky.”

Now with some hours to develop, I can see that that his chin is bruised too beneath the swollen split of his lip and his nose got nicked a little. I bet his gums hurt. My whole mouth had a tempo of pain beating in it the day Baz hauled off and punched me before I broke his nose. Baz has a weak wrist. He should have knocked my teeth out that day.

I'll have to teach him how to throw a proper punch if I ever get to see him again.

I laugh and stretch. “Plus I got a different bloke in mind, Mrs. Riley. No offense, Shep.”

“Full offense taken,” Shepard mutters but I can see his knowing smile.

I punch his shoulder. “Didn’t know you wanted me so bad.”

Shepard barely flinches from the hit. “You’re irresistible Simon. Please, take me, I’m yours.”

I shove him half off the bed. He laughs and slithers out of the sheets, tugging himself up by his mom's hips. He gives her a sleepy mumbling kiss on her cheek.

“I don't know what you boys are talking about, but you smell, Shep.”

“It's my musk. I'm a man, mom. I musk.”

“It's teenage boy stink. Clean up. It's almost supper already, and someone is supposed to mow and it sure ain't me.”

“I'll mow,” I volunteer, waving my hand up like a white flag of surrender. The slice in my arm twinges. “I got energy to burn.”

"Mhm I bet after you slept the whole day." Mrs. Riley hums long and disbelieving but leaves Shepard and me to sort ourselves out.

“You know how to mow?” Shepard flops back on the bed. I stretch some more and blink into the sun. It's bright enough that I can almost pretend last night didn't happen. Almost.

“You can show me. I need, uhm, a - what are they - life skills.”

“Life skills,” Shepard repeats, throwing air quotes around the world. “You made it this far.”

I yawn and push up from bed. Sleep on it. We did. Now what? A little bit more playing pretend. A little bit more vacation. Just a little longer of this life before I have to face down the monsters in the dark again. If I don't, they'll come to me.

I can't run. I've got to face my life.

“Shep, if I know my life, knowing how to mow the grass will save me from a gruesome death.”

“It's a push mower,” he warns.

“Like I said. Gruesome death.”

**Baz**

I follow on Bunce’s heel to the front step. She's already knocking, rattling the glass door in its frame with her fist. I don't doubt that she has twenty spells on the tip of her tongue.

It's the same for me.

“He's just in a house?” She asks aloud, face strained by misgiving.

I have the strange awful sensation that we've made a mistake. That we'll find a different boy reeking of familiar magic; or we'll find a Snow without his memories; or we'll find a Snow who is happier. Who is finally free. And we're the ghosts of Christmas past, rattling chains and moaning in the corner. I feel like the bloody wraiths in the guest room.

“What if these are his Normal parents?” She asks me next, like I'm any help on the subject. I'm the furthest thing from helpful. And her mind rests with mine. What if Simon Snow has found a happy little place in the world, in neon America in a little blue house.

The door opens on a whine and a wide swing and a tiny Black woman is standing between us and heartbreak.

“Yes?” She asks, drying her hands on a tea towel that she folds into the wide front pocket of a white apron. Kitchen smells waft from her: the acidity of cheap black tea, the stickiness of lemons and sugar. Mint, feta. Cucumber and watermelon. And the slick mouthfeel of butter.

I want more than anything for Simon Snow to be in a house that smells like butter. I want him fat and happy and living a life painted in thick yellow brushstrokes, in layers of yummy pastels.

We stare at the woman.

“Excuse us,” I apologize, balking with my own impropriety. Her stern mouth, the flare of her jaw, her dark eyes. I need to wipe my feet and wash my hands before I'm allowed to inconvenience her with my heartache hunt.

“Hi,” Bunce bullies on, unclouded and undaunted. “We're looking for our friend Simon.”

Well. That's one way to do it. Why didn't I think of that?

She lights up. “Oh! About time someone came looking for that poor boy. Whole cast of Downton Abbey in here. Shoes off. I'll put the kettle on.”

Bunce grabs my hand. I hold back tightly.

“I’m the queen of England,” the woman mutters to herself, loud enough for my vampiric hearing. “Tea all day in this house. If Simon tries baking scones again...” Then she calls properly through the shadows of the house: “Shepard, is Simon still fooling around outside?”

A back screen door opens. A boy's voice shouts distantly: “Simon! My mom wants you.”

The boy appears bounding around the corner. His broken bottom lip looks like dinner and he smells like magic gone wrong. He gapes at us before morphing into an easy grin.

“Hi, I'm Shepard,” he says with a wave. “You must be Penelope and Baz. Simon won't stop talking about you.”

We clutch at each other's hands. Bunce’s heartbeat leaps into my palm. The closest I can give in return is a crackle of Pitch-blood fire, an ember she smothers in the sweat of her grip.

And then the back door bangs. I smell the pungent summer sweat of him first; then cut grass and old blood. Simon Snow’s chavvy accent calling: “You need me, Mrs. Riley?”

And then he's there. Alive. Blinking like a newborn at the sight of us, mesh shorts riding low on his hips and broad chest profoundly bare to me. He's the best thing I've ever seen in my life.

**Simon**

Penny! (Baz?)

**Penelope**

_Simon._

“Penny!”

I never make a fuss when I see him. I never tell him hello. I never want to say goodbye. He's the dramatic one. Not me.

I let go of Baz’s hand at the exact moment that Simon descends on me in a crushing hug. He's hiccuping my name and folding me into his sun-soaked body. He's shirtless and sticky and I open my mouth against his heartbeat and feel the shy hair on his chest in my face.

“Pen- h-how - you - You found me. You're fucking brilliant. You found me.” Simon Snow is laughing into my hair and shuddering under my hands. I search his skin on reflex for wounds, for hurts, but he's whole. He's unchanged. A bandage on his arm but that's below average for Simon.

He's alive. I hold him tighter. He's alive. (He was once a thin little boy. He was once so thin he went see-through.)

“You're not allowed to do this to me ever again.” I push him off me and stare at him. He sucks in his bottom lip, nodding in a flop of curls.

“Penny.” He lifts a hand to my face, growing serious. He stares me down, worry locking his jaw. “Did - did I -,” he swallows, tongue slipping out past his teeth, “did I get you home safe?”

“Oh, Simon.” He lets me bury my face back in his chest, the round edge of his chin coming to rest on my head. “Yes. Yes, you did. You took care of me.” He smothers a whimper into my hair. “Next time you come with me.”

“Next time,” he promises, squeezing me.

“Don't leave me again.”

The next breath he takes goes on forever. He can't promise me that. It's almost enough to make me cry, but I won't cry. I won't fuss. I won't say hello and I'll never say goodbye.

“I won't,” he whispers, kissing the crown of my head. He can't promise me that, but he's trying. “M’not leaving you again.”

**Simon**

_Baz._

This it then, yeah?

**Baz**

My fangs nearly pop with want; the spike of it rocking me off-kilter where I stand. Bunce and Snow murmur and make promises, wrapped in the rightness of each other and the eternal sunlight of their friendship. It's enough to make me sick. I'm left behind to overflow, my hand empty, mouth running over with spit; I'm left swallowing spasmodic and rhythmic and wanton.

Their soft promises float to me. I could sink my teeth into the words; I could live off that love; I wish to demand them for my own; I could hold them at wand tip and say “me too. Love me this hard too."

I ache in a beggar’s silence.

Simon presses Bunce’s cheek to his chest, rubbing his face into her like a dog. Then his nose, woofing a deep breath, her purple-spelled hair tangled around his face like the smoke curls from a cauldron. Finally, he rests his chin atop her skull, eyes closed as he savors the wholeness of her to his chest.

And then he looks at me.

“Baz,” he says my name like a punch to the gut, like I'm a blow staggering him off a cliff edge. He laughs around the shape of my name in his mouth; he makes me a crooked thing between his lips. I’d let him eat me alive. “I knew you'd come for me.”

Of course I’d come for you. It was always supposed to be you and me at the end, Snow. You don’t get to get out of it. _We_ don't get to get out of this.

I raise my wand.

I raise my wand to his face and stare into the unremarkable blue of his eyes down the length. He is a commoner’s palette. Wheat gold and freckles like rust flecks. A blunt and uncomplicated beauty.

Snow stiffens his chin. He doesn't even glance at my wand. He reaches out past Bunce for me. Simon Snow stared down a dragon at eleven years old. Just who do I think I am?

“Baz.” He reaches for my hand.

His touch once set Bunce alight from the inside out. He loves her, and he burned her. I love him, and his touch would annihilate me.

Here's my chance. I promised I'd go quietly. All he had to do would be to come back and take me; to do it himself; to drag me down with him. I found him. I came for him. I flew across the ocean and now he's right here with me. We were never far apart, all these years. What is an ocean to years of holding each other at arms’ length? He reaches for my hand. I let him take it. I'd let him do anything.

Damn the ocean. Damn the distance. I was always meant to crash. Always meant to burn. He makes it into a homecoming.

**Simon**

I don't know what's happening but I've got Penny and Baz (Baz!) in my arms and I don't want to ever let them go. I don't care about much else past that. I don't need to know much else other than Baz is here with Penny. Holding hands. I'll figure it out later.

Penny squawks when Baz crumples into her, hauled in rough and hard by my hand. The beautiful prick gave up on threatening with his wand real quick; he looked petrified; I don't think he knows what to do with me so excited to see him. Now he's huddling into me, rubbing his face into my neck like a dog while Penny scolds him for his bony hips. I crush them both tightly to me.

This is must better than fighting. I'm not gonna ask too many questions. I like this too much.

**Baz**

My face is buried in Simon Snow’s bare sweaty neck. I can smell the blood from his bandaged arm. I am going to die. Crowley, my mouth is watering. He smells so good. I am going to lick him first and then die. (I’m depraved.)

**Simon**

Something cold and wet touches my throat.

“Did you just lick me?”

Baz jerks his face away from the cradle of my neck, wild-eyed, mouth open and fangs hanging out for everyone to see.

“Wicked,” I grin. I should be more concerned, I know, but I’m so happy right now I don’t think I can care. (Penny!) (Baz!) (Penny and Baz!)(Fangs!)

“Woah,” Shepard says from behind me, impressed. “Bro.”

Mrs. Riley gasps.

Baz claps a hand over his mouth, horrified.

“Simon,” he lisps (cute!), squirming back from me. His cold palm flattens on my chest; the contact makes me shiver and I swear it jumps into him because I can feel the ripple of it race down his back. I don’t want to let him go. I press my hand over his, our eyes locking. His gray eyes pool dark and wide as they meet mine.

“Basilton,” Penny hisses, “Get it together.”

(They must be friends if Penny’s bossing him around. And holds his hand. She only does that with me.)

Mrs. Riley’s clutches the tiny cross necklace beneath her blouse and takes a step back from us. “What in God’s name is he?”

**Shepard**

“Hey, mom, maybe we should give Simon and his friends a second, yeah?” I step between her and the magical clique (and the vampire!) and grin at her the widest I can, hoping to distract her. I'm just shy of waving my hands and shitting my pants if it means making a distraction.

“Shepard, what is this…” She's bugging. I'm so not ready for this conversation with her. Or the one after that. Or after that. But I don’t get the chance to do any of that because Penelope Bunce bursts from her hug with Simon and shoves a glowing purple hand into my mom’s face.

**“It was all a dream - the last five minutes.”**

“Penny!” Simon shouts, dodging past her to grab my mom as her eyes fall shut and her legs give out. I’m on her other side, easing her down to sit on the floor, back against the wall. Penelope’s purple hand swings to my face next. Simon passes the rest of my mom’s weight to me and stands between his friend and us. “Don’t spell him.”

“Simon, they’re _Normals_ -”

“You _can't_ spell Shepard,” Simon says, patting Penelope’s glowing hand, folding it between his own. I can’t see his face from this angle, but the sharp conviction in Penelope's face softens.

“They saw Baz,” Penelope argues. Baz, for his part, has fled to the far corner of the room, turned away from everyone, hand still over his mouth.

I shake my mom gently. Her eyelids flutter and she opens her eyes, blinking at me.

“Baby?”

Oh thank god. “Hey, mom.”

Simon drops down beside us, his knees thudding into the floor. He’s flushed, face tight. He glances at me before looking at my mom carefully.

“Mrs. Riley, alright? You fainted all of a sudden,” he says, squeezing my mom’s hand gently.

“Did I?”

“Yes’m.”

I risk looking over my shoulder at Penelope Bunce who narrows her eyes at me. I look back to my mom hurriedly but sneak one more look at Penelope. Yup. She’s still glaring at me. Yikes.

“I don’t remember,” mom says, rubbing her forehead.

Simon sighs and sits back on his heels, letting go of her to scrub both hands over his face and back through his hair. “Didn’t think you would.”

Oh. A memory spell.

“I’m sorry, uhm, Mrs. Riley,” Penelope Bunce says in a suddenly pronounced English accent. “I think we gave you a wee bit of a shock.”

Mom squints up at Penelope. “Who-”

“My friends, Mrs. Riley. They uh - it’s - they’re,” Simon groans and sits back on his butt fully. “Sorry. Let’s get you some tea, yeah?”

“What a fuss,” mom sighs, bracing a hand on my shoulder and getting to her feet. “What am I, some old lady?” She stands steady but she’s still blinking at Penelope. “Sorry, who are you in my house?”

“Simon’s friends,” Penelope says, reaching out for Simon who takes her hand and gets to his feet. They exchange a wordless intense look. Penelope’s squeezing his hand hard. “We’ve been looking everywhere for him.”

“Apologies,” comes the very posh voice from a suddenly very in control Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. Other than the pale-gray pallor of his skin, any hints of vampirism have been washed from him. He’s stony-faced and detached. He's wearing an ascot and a short linen suit. I gotta give him props for flair. “We didn’t mean to intrude, or to do so with such a clamor.”

Mom nods slowly, staring at him. Penelope Bunce sucks in a breath and I’m about ready to tackle her to stop any more magic from flying into my mom’s face. But mom only shakes her head and laughs a little and looks at Simon coyly. “This is your boy, isn't he, Simon? ‘Bout time he came to collect you.”

Baz’s calm cool and collected expression falls apart. His mouth falls open and his eyebrows shoot up. Simon flushes and without a shirt, it’s pretty obvious that it goes from his ears all the way down his chest.

“Y-yeah. That’s - Baz - he - Yes. This is the boy who made my foster dad kick me out of the house for being gay,” Simon says in a panicked rush, looking at Penelope desperately. And then, just as desperately but more nervously, at Baz. “I got gay orphaned. That’s why I’m in America.”

“That is not a thing,” Baz says in a rasping, disbelieving voice. “You don’t get gay orphaned.”

“Yes it is,” Simon argues, brows drawing down. “I got gay orphaned.”

“I don’t know why I thought you’d be less of a moron once we found you,” Baz huffs.

“Can you two not,” Penelope snaps, grabbing both of their hands and tugging on them. “It’s been five minutes.”

Simon blinks and drops his eyes from Baz to grin at Penelope. “Sorry, Pen.”

For the first time, Simon doesn’t sound sorry at all.


	19. Alone

* * *

* * *

**  
Agatha**

Minty doesn't think I should be alone right now. I think she's right. Grieving isn't something meant to be handled alone. That's why we have funerals and memorials, that's why they're communal. Many hands make for light work, and grieving is work. I'm exhausted from it. The burden of my grief piggybacks on me all day.

I think about Simon more now than I ever have. About all the times he made me happy. About all the times he hurt me or scared me or made me sad and annoyed. About all the times I made him happy and how I should have worked harder. Loved him harder. Better. More.

I hate thinking about the times I hurt him. The whole world hurt him; why did I have to add to it?

I hate him. I love him. I wish we'd never met. I'm glad we met. A curly haired little boy who followed me around like a puppy and lit up so bright it made the shadows under your own feet disappear. My friend. I miss my friend. I miss my fucking friend.

I wish I knew how to stop feeling like this. I thought I was prepared for this. The day he wouldn't come back. I always wanted him to come back, but I knew one day he just wouldn't.

I thought I knew what to do. How it'd feel. My dad says grief is something you have to live through. You have to embrace it. So I try. I try not to run from it. All I want to do is run from it. Run from everything.

Minty doesn't want me to be alone. But if I'm alone, I'm safe. If I'm alone, I don't want to worry about anyone else. I won't have to grieve and I won't make anyone grieve for me. Alone is safe. I just want to be safe.

No humdrum. No war. No Simon (not anymore never again he's gone.) Hell, no magic.

But the Normal world isn't safe either. Nothing is. That's life. That's death. I told Minty he was killed in a car crash. I say it like that. Killed. Not died. Died is too passive. Killed. It's awful. Even a Normal death like a car accident is awful. It's so reasonable. Minty actually met Simon. Sixth year's Christmas. She cried when I told her. She said sorry to me when she found out.

Minty says I shouldn't be alone right now; my dad wants to hover but he's up to his neck in Coven problems. He said the World of Mages is in chaos. When is it not? It was before Simon. It was during Simon. It will be after Simon. He internalized it all. He shouldn't have. It's all happening with or without him.

I think we were always being torn apart, even before the Humdrum. And now even after. Some prophecy. I think Simon was just a boy. They should have let him be a boy.

Now I'm with Minty at the beach because it's summer and I'm a teenage girl and my boyfriend who I wanted to break up with is dead and grief is a wave that comes and goes from me and the ocean goes on and on as far as I can see. I want to go into the ocean and fall off the flat side of the earth. (Here be dragons.)

And my mother is calling. Again.

“You should answer,” Minty says. Minty says. Minty says. I should listen to her. It'll help.

“Hi,” is how I answer my phone. My toenail polish is chipped. I bury my feet into the beach, far far down where the sand is cool.

"Hi, darling. How are you?" Pleasantries.

"Fine. You? What's up?"

“Well, Agatha, darling, I just got off the phone with Mitali Bunce,” mother says in a careful voice, like she's afraid to spook me over the phone.

Professor Bunce is almost as much to handle as Penelope. I've only met the woman a few times, the rare times Penny and I would hang out over summer break. We're friends with only one thing in common: Simon. Our hangouts were always so desperate and awkward without him, both of us only existing together by forced familiarity. I think I like Penny most when I'm not talking to her. I think that's a kind of friendship.

“Well, darling,” mother continues after a long time of silence. I do that now. I stay silent. It's a relief to be quiet. The grief provides a nice excuse. “Penny's missing. Her mother said she ran off with Basilton Grimm-Pitch. She wanted to know if you knew anything about it, being friends and all. She said it might…,” mother pauses and sighs, “I'm sorry, Agatha, but she said it has something to do with Simon. Do you know anything?”

So when Penny couldn't convince me Simon was alive, she went to Baz?

“I don't.” Because I don't. I don't know. I don't want to know. I'm not going to tell my mom Penny's crazy theory.

(Baz, really?)

I like Penny the most when I don't know what she's doing. The less I know, the better.

“I didn't think so. I told her you've been away with your Normal friends.”

“Tell her I'm sorry.”

Doesn't Penny know it would hurt everyone if anything happened to her? She's not indestructible. Simon was the closest to indestructible and even he - -

“I'm sorry,” I repeat.

“It's okay, Agatha. I won't bother you with this again. I told Mitali I would ask but I told her you haven't spoken to Penny.”

Minty stuffs my phone under a beach towel.

“You okay, babe?”

“I want to be.”

“You will be,” she promises me. I want to ask her how she knows. Normals know so much. I think having to do life without magic gives you some kind of advantage, like the mundanity of doing your own buttons by hand every morning makes you stronger than spelling the row. The fortitude of daily achievements. “With time. You will be with time. C’mon. Let's ride the waves.”

She pushes the sand off my buried feet and drags me into the ocean.

(Penny. Baz. What are you two doing now?)

(Was Penny right? Is Simon --)

**Baz**

Snow’s alive. Snow’s alive and telling people he’s gay. Snow’s alive and telling people he’s gay and that I’m the boy he likes.

I’m living a charmed life. Or this is all an elaborate fucked up dream. I don't want to wake up.

**Penelope**

He looks wrong. I'm looking at him, and there's something wrong. Tired. Simon looks tired. And raw. And like something's missing.

He's holding my hand and smiling.

Something’s wrong.

He's smiling less the longer he looks at me.

“Pen?” He hesitates before wiping his thumb along my cheek, first one, then the other.

**Baz**

Bunce is crying. I don’t like it.

**Simon**

“Bunce.” Baz puts his hand on Penny’s shoulder and she hiccups and turns her wet eyes from me to him. Baz smiles at her and talks to her in a low comforting voice, a secret voice. I like it. That he's talking to Penny like that. I want him to talk to me like that. I want him to smile at me. He looks soft. Baz Pitch looks soft.

(I can't believe they're here.)

“You were right. He's alive. You were right. You're bloody brilliant.”

She sniffs unattractively. “I know I am.” She wipes her face with her hand and then smacks it against my chest. It’s sticky. Gross, Pen. “You! I thought you were dead.”

“I was dead.”

I should really think these things through before saying them because she does not like that for an answer at all. Neither does Baz apparently.

**Baz**

“What do you mean you were dead?” I jerk Simon around to face me by his splendidly naked shoulder. He's radiant with heat, soaking my hand through with all the sunlight of his skin. He flinches at my cold touch but doesn't shrug me off.

Charmed life indeed. I keep my hand on him like the starved leech that I am. I'll hold on until I burst into flames. Or until my fangs pop out and I'm overcome with the desire to drink his blood. Or lick him again. (Merlin and Morgana I licked him. He tasted like a salt and vinegar chip.) (I disgust myself.) (I want to lick him again.)

“Uhh,” he drags out, eloquent as always, breathing heavily in and out of his mouth and staring at me uselessly. He's very much alive. I'm the dead one in our little equation.

Snow turns his head to the Normal boy who's hovering and witnessing all this - _has already_ witnessed me drop fang, Aleister bloody Crowley, we need to erase his memory _yesterday_.

The Normal boy smells weird. Dark. He smells like a sickness crawled out of a hole. I don’t like it. Something else smells weird and I can't place it. I don’t like that either. At least Bunce has stopped crying. That was terrible.

“Shepard,” Snow _whines_ for the Normal boy and I _really_ don't like that.

**Shepard**

I acknowledge Simon’s neediness with a toothy grimace at him and duck into the kitchen to find my mom and waylay her making a gallon of tea.

“Mom, I think my man is in need of a serious debrief with his friends.”

“Shepard,” she says to me quietly, catching my eye and holding it. “I hope one day you tell me the truth about all this.” She tips her head back towards the foyer where the British clique is having a series of floating head interviews with each other.

My stomach drops down somewhere around my knees. “Yeah. One day, mom.”

We look at the half-made cucumber and watermelon mint salad.

“Am I suddenly feeding a whole house of teenagers?”

“Yes maybe? You're a saint? You're the best mom in the whole world? Mankind is better for having you? You make me a better person?”

“The flattery works better when you don't make it into a question, baby.”

“Shep, we’re going upstairs. Come up!” Simon calls into the kitchen before the sound of feet on stairs echoes through the house. Mom’s eyes lift up like she can see them through the ceiling.

“Go. Help Simon. He's so maladjusted it stresses me out.”

“Took the words out of my mouth.” I hesitate to leave. She gives me a funny look.

“What's wrong, Shep?”

“Nothing.”

She frowns and cups my cheek. I roll my face into her palm.

“You worried about Simon?”

“Yeah,” I rasp, unsure if it's a lie or not. I am. But everything from last night's coming back; Penelope spelling my mom's making me want to grab her and run. And knowing I can't escape this life is making me want to pull the blankets over my head.

“It's going to be okay, Shepard,” she tells me, like she knows everything there is to know.

“Yeah,” I say again, knowing I'm lying this time. “M’gonna go make sure Simon doesn't…” I don't even have an out. I take the stairs two at a time and push in through the guest room and don't stop until I'm sitting beside Simon on the bed.

The door closes and locks. When I look up, Baz has his wand out and pointed at me. “You smell like an unspeakable curse.”

He can smell it? Fucking vampires. And fuck these spell-happy Speakers.

“Fucking try it, Dracula.” I'd love to watch a spell bounce back into his face. Just like Penny would have spelled away her own memories downstairs if Simon hadn't jumped between us. Baz’s lip curls back and I swear he's about to try something, but Simon doesn't give him a chance. He stands up between us and grabs the tip of Baz’s wand and points it at himself.

I'm not even shocked at this point. Simon’s Simon doing his Simon thing. When I look over at the foot of the bed, his friend Penny is squinting at the both of us like she's doing long division in her head.

**Baz**

Nothing has changed. Snow is exactly the same level of stupid and reckless as he's ever been.

“Let go of my wand, Snow.”

I want to go back to when he was holding my hand. Holding me. Looking at me like - like he was happy to see me. Almost as happy to see me as he was Bunce. Why did I think anything would change? I'll always be the villain to him. His little Normal reeks of a horrible misdeed, and Snow wants to growl at me.

“Don't spell Shepard,” he warns. “Pretty sure it'd fly back into your face, Baz.” He pushes my wand aside and steps up bare-chested to stare me down. I make a point to look down my nose at him; he tilts his chin and breathes in the air I breathe out. His gaze tracks down my face, catches on my sneer, then darts back up to my eyes. The heat of him bleeds into me; I'll buckle. He doesn't give me time. “And don't be a fucking prick. I’m happy to see you and you'll ruin it.”

And then that's it. That's all he spares me in the moment. He turns his back on me and my wand and scrubs a hand over his curls and rubs at the back of his neck. He has more freckles than I remember; the American sun has brushed him in a pink glow and new dappling. I don’t have long to appreciate the naked stretch of him before he groans and throws himself dramatically onto the bed hard enough to make the Normal boy bounce on the edge of the mattress.

“Your mum okay? Penny's spell shouldn't have hurt her.”

“She's okay,” the Normal says and he puts a hand on Snow’s naked shoulder. I want to scream.

Normals don’t usually like Snow. When we were younger, he admitted as much to me; that his magic put them off. Not the case now.

Not the case now, because - because the thing that I’ve been smelling that’s wrong is the smell of Snow, the clean smokeless boy of him, smelling the absence of magic. Snow’s magic. There’s no drunken chemical buzz on the back of my tongue; the hair isn’t singing off my arms.

I gasp. “Snow.”

He looks over his shoulder at me, curious, a little wary, but otherwise unguarded. I don’t know if he’s ever turned his back so lazily on me before. (He said he was happy to see me.) (I’ve raised my wand to his face twice in the last ten minutes and he hasn’t balled me out.) (What the hell happened to him?)

Bunce, who’s been strangely quiet, apparently gathers the same thought as me in the moment. “Simon, where’s your magic?”

He rolls over onto his back and looks at the ceiling, hands down at his sides, legs hanging off the bed. “Pen, I’ve got so much to tell you.” He turns his cheek into the bed to look at her. “I’ve wanted to talk to you every single day since I woke up here.”

“What do you mean?” She’s on him, her hesitations dissolved. She pounces on Snow, knocking the Normal aside to sit nearly atop him. “You’ve been here this whole time? Simon. It’s been _weeks_. According to our world, you’ve been dead for-”

“Seventeen days,” I whisper,

Snow looks at me through a veil of lashes. He chews on his bottom lip the way he used to chew on his cross. A cross he’s no longer wearing.

“Well, for me, only been alive for…uh,-” and the idiot starts counting on his fingers, tongue in the corner of his mouth and everything. Crowley, what do I see in him.

“Fourteen days,” the Normal says helpfully.

Bunce is brushing Simon’s curls out of his face and frowning at him. “Simon….you disappeared.”

“Yeah.” He touches her hand, stroking the pebbled skin of her healed scars. He folds it up in his own and stares at her hand. “Pen. I hurt you.”

“You saved me.”

“I was - it was me -”

“It wasn’t.” When he tries to open his mouth and protest, Bunce flattens her palm over his lips and glares at me. “Seriously, Simon. Flagellate later.”

Fuck this. I sit down on the other side of Bunce. I want to touch Snow. I want to reach over and put my hands on him and pin him to this bed and never let him out of my sight again. I can’t do that. Fourteen days? What the fuck does that mean. “Snow, explain what in the name of magic is going on before Bunce starts foaming at the mouth. You _had_ magic. Very recently by our math. You drew the Sword of Mages. We know you did.”

His face scrunches up. “Yeah, how do you know that anyway?”

“We! Have! Been! Looking! For! You!” Bunce yells, smacking at his naked chest with each word, finally going rabid. She leaps off the bed and throws her hands in the air. “For weeks! You think I’d ever let you just vanish into thin air and just -”

She stops.

Simon sits up on his elbows and cocks his head like a puppy. “Pen?”

Bunce bounces on her feet excitedly and points at me. “Into thin air!”

“Yes?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Into thin air!”

“Is she okay?” The Normal boy asks, nudging Simon.

“She’s perfect,” I snip.

“Pen’s bril,” Simon agrees, but he glances sideways at me with his scrunched up nose. “Since when do you-”

“You were in Limbo. That’s it, isn’t it - and then Baz - and the spell - and Oh, Merlin, this is - this is _groundbreaking_. Simon.” And now she’s on him again, squishing his face in her hands. “Tell me everything.”

“I’ll try?” It comes out garbled. “Shep might know more about whatever Limbo thing. He summoned me.”

He’s not a Normal after all. Plus he doesn’t even flinch when I glare at him. He just holds up his hands. (Am I losing my touch?) “I was like, one-fourth of the summoning. I’m not a Speaker.”

“Speaker?” Bunce asks.

“A mage.”

“How’d you do it? You summoned Simon?” She leans into his face. “You don’t have magic.”

“A magician never reveals his secrets?”

Bunce is about to go feral. I kind of want to watch.

“He has something,” I correct. “He’s not Normal.”

“He’s-” Simon cuts off and looks at the un-Normal. “Ah, Shep, can I tell them? I told you if anyone can help, it’d be Penny and Baz. They're the smartest people I know.”

Simon said I’d help? Help with what? How the hell am I twenty minutes into finding Simon Snow alive and already wrapped up in the next stupid problem in his life? I should have known. I should have let him stay dead. I’m hopelessly in love and eternally doomed.

The Normal - what the hell is his name, Shepard? - sighs. “Simon, my friend, your life is a whirlwind.”

“Yeah, I know.” Snow smiles at Shepard. “Sorry.” But he’s smiling, and I didn’t know I needed to see the expression on him again. (Hopeless. Doomed.) He’s starting to grin, and the weariness lifts from him a little. He grins at the side of Bunce’s face until she gives up her silent psychological interrogation of Shepard and glances at Simon, crumpling into a smile under the irresistible charm of his happiness. Of his aliveness.

And then he smiles at me, the grin slipping to just a corner of his mouth, that crooked boyish smile that I’ve only seen from a distance, that’s never been for me. Except for today. Today, Snow smiles for me.

“I thought about you every day,” he says in a low secretive voice.

Whatever the hell happened to Simon Snow in seventeen or fourteen or however the fuck many days, I think (horribly, selfishly) I’m glad for it because I’m a terrible person and Snow should have rid the world of my years ago but he's smiling at me.

“We never gave up,” Bunce says, like the words are for her. And maybe they are. But the look Snow gives me stakes me where I am and leaves me mute.

“You’ve got perfect timing, Penny,” Simon says cheerfully, turning back to her. “Well, would have liked you last night with the goblins, but this works too.”

“The goblin!” Bunce nods her head so hard it’s going to pop off. She scoots back on the bed to sit beside me and, of all things, loops her arm through mine and grabs my hand, squeezing me hard. I can feel the beat of her heart in her palm. (I need to feed.) “Okay. We’re ready. Start from the beginning and then we’ll do our side. No more interruptions.”

And then she casts **“See what I mean”** and holds up her finger to write in the air, the googly-eyed Normal be-damned. I’m grateful for her hand, all of a sudden, even if Snow looks at it with an expression I can’t begin to unravel.


	20. What We Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's your vampire shirt u numpties <3

* * *

* * *

**Penelope**

What We Know - Kind of (“Bunce, half of these are just theories.”)

  * Simon disappeared.  
  

  * Simon casted a Simonism of Get Home Safe that may or may not have sent him somewhere safe with the last of his magic 
    * He did not exist in our dimension for three days.
    * My theories about the Sword of Mages were right.
    * He was pulled out of a seance summoning circle. The invocation might have triggered the conjuring of the Sword of Mages. Or Simon Snow has his own magical invocation???? 
      * Is Simon a magical artifact now? 
        * He was tied to the Sword of Mages and was preserved in the Limbo space. 
          * He never died. (“He looked pretty dead.” “‘Wakey Wakey’ does not resurrect people from the dead.” “I'm just saying, I saw what I saw.”)
  * Simon doesn’t have magic(???) except he was able to summon the Sword of Mages when he was in a life or death situation and trying to protect Shepard. 
    * The Sword retained Simon’s magic?  
He won’t try to summon it again.


  * Shepard Riley accepted a demon’s curse. (This is why Normal’s shouldn’t go near the magical world.) 
    * Simon wants us to help him.


  * Goblins found Simon. 
    * Simon killed them and used Into Thin Air on them // Baz used Drop Out of Thin Air 
      * Magical continuity!


  * The Mage Abandoned Simon



What we don’t know - mostly (“Bunce, this is the worst chart I’ve ever seen.”)

  * Most of the things on the what we do know side. (“I’m beginning to doubt your critical thinking skills.” “And I never asked for your opinion.”)
  * Why The Mage wouldn’t help Simon. (“We do know why. Because he’s scum and a disgrace to magicians everywhere. I’m going to mount his head on a spike outside of my summer cottage.” “Can we please not talk about him?”)  
  

  * If Simon has magic or not. (“We could know if you tried the incantation.”)  
  

  * Schrodinger’s Sword. (“Hey, I said that!”)



**Simon**

It's all just wibblywobblytimeywimey. And Penny said those marathons were a waste of time. This is what I mean about valuable life skills. You never know when they'll pop up.

**Penelope**

“It is a bad chart, isn’t it?” I admit to Baz when I step back and look it over. I’ve moved from the bed to pacing the room, with Baz, Simon, and Shepard sitting on the bed watching me like obedient school children.

That’s a stretch. Baz won’t stop offering snide commentary; Simon’s still shirtless and slumped over with his elbows on his knees; and Shepard is...Shepard looks like an obedient school child. He’s watching all this with a glowing, eager expression and following me with his eyes. Weirdo.

I do feel bad about spelling his mom, but honestly, we can’t have people seeing Baz with his fangs out.

Which! Is a whole _other_ thing; Simon didn’t even care. Years of him huffing and stalking Baz around trying to prove he’s a vampire and now it just _doesn’t matter._ A lot of things don’t seem to matter to Simon now. It’s like he’s been whittled down to the bare essentials of what matters and the only things that made the cut are the people in this house. He doesn't even seem to care about his magic. _Magic_! Simon _loves_ magic. He loves it more than almost anyone I know. Between him, Baz, and myself, I don't know if you can find three people who love magic more than we do. And Simon may or may not have magic and he doesn't want to find out. He’s taken the ignorance is bliss route, and I’m going to have to shake some sense into him when I’m done being happy to see him. (I give it a week.) Simon's magic is a matter of national security.

I don’t know what to do with that. Simon’s lost in thought; Baz is pining and staring into the side of Simon’s head so hard I’m surprised he hasn’t performed a lobotomy; and then there’s the Normal with a demon-deal. It’s a lot. It’s complicated. It’s a mess. It’s about our standard fare. I'm relieved. I can handle this. _We_ can handle this, because we're back together and this is what Simon and I _do_.

Shepard’s mom knocks on the bedroom door. I spell away the writing in the air before Shepard invites her in. Simon said this family took care of him. Merlin. Simon, all on his own. I hate it. If it weren’t for Shepard, where would he be? If it weren’t for Shepard and a stupid stupid American-style seance, Simon would be floating in another dimension. He had been dead. A kind of dead. He’d been so impossibly far away from me. And he tried to ask The Mage for help and was shunted. I’ll let Baz cut his head off. Maybe I’ll help.

“Do you kids want to eat?” Shepard’s mom asks, standing in the doorway, looking us over with a rumpled brow of concern. “Simon, baby, you good?”

“I can’t believe you spelled this woman,” Baz hisses quietly in my ear when I sit beside him. “She calls him baby. A mother is calling Snow _baby_ and you spelled her.”

I shove him away. “Even your breath is cold, Baz.”

I did it for Baz. He should show more gratitude. But he has a point. The Riley's aren't handling Simon like a hero or a bomb. There's no padding between the interaction. They're easy with him in a way I've never seen him have before. No Mr. Snow. No expectation for anything other than good manners. The way Simon told it, aside from all the panic, he actually experienced something normal (Normal?) for once in his life. I'd help Shepard Riley even if I wasn't dead curious about the demon curse if only because he gave Simon _this_. Even I could never give Simon _this._

“I’m okay, Mrs. Riley. Thanks. You’re - you’re the best, yeah?” Simon pops off the bed, pulling at his hair. Merlin, it’s long. It’s way longer than it was when we fought the Humdrum, isn’t it? Can Simon see how different he looks? Older. Raw. I’m worried he was in the Limbo space for more than three days. I don’t know if it matters. I don’t know what it means. I think he grew a year. I think I missed him turning eighteen.

“Thanks, mom, we’ll be right down,” Shepard adds.

“Mhm,” she nods, looking us over again. She lingers on Baz for a concerning moment before she nods again at Simon. “Put on a shirt before you come down to my table.”

“Right- yeah - yeah.” Simon spins in a circle, looking around the guest room. There’s a couple of articles of clothing sitting on the tiny dresser crammed in the corner and he pulls the first shirt he finds from the pile, tugging it over his head in a snap.

Baz makes a noise like hot air escaping a balloon.

“Simon,” I sigh, rubbing my temples. Of course. “Where did you get that?”

“Uh?” He looks down at the tight black shirt that says _bite me_ , complete with vampire fangs. Really? He has enough shame to turn scarlet but _not_ enough good sense _not_ to look _Baz_ in the eyes. They’re both idiots. “Uh. Goodwill?”

Baz gropes at his shirt pocket and pulls out his sunglasses, cramming them on his face. “I hate everything that’s brought me to this point in my life.”

“Baz,” Simon wrinkles his nose at him. “You’re inside.”

“And it’s like, six p.m. my guy,” Shepard says. “The sun has set.”

“I have very sensitive eyes,” Baz snips.

“More like a very sensitive face,” I mutter. Baz elbows me like he hasn't learned already that I will elbow him back.

**Baz**

**Malcolm**

I still attend Coven meetings even though they’re a sputtering farce. The Mage is losing ground and I want to rip the rug out from beneath him. I’ve no need to cower or hide; let him see me.

Last week’s meeting, Mitali and I didn’t speak despite the knowledge that my son was spending his nights questionably asleep in her house. We didn’t acknowledge it. But now - Now she’s at my door in Hampshire, dropping in unannounced well after the evening hour of acceptability.

I suspect I know why, but she quickly confirms it.

“Malcolm,” she addresses me rather than greets me, standing in my front hall, quietly irate, her brow punishingly low. “I believe our children have run away together.”

“Hardly a romantic elopement, Mitali, have no fear. Basilton won’t impugn upon your daughter’s honor.” So the little Bunce girl didn’t inform her parents. Wonderful. She’d spoken with such fervor the other evening, candid and charmingly ruthless. I almost liked her, despite myself, and despite the knowledge that her voice would eventually generate an unfathomable headache if left to rant too long.

Mitali blinks once, her face caught in the narrow gap between pity and murder. “It’s obvious to me that your son-,” she stops herself and takes a breath. “Do you know where she is?”

“Lost a hold on your child? Why not send your eldest boy and the rest of the Merry Men on a hunt for her?” I can only imagine the tension in that house; if Basil ever aligned himself against me in such a pathetic way, I’d - I don’t entertain the thought. He’s loyal. He understands the situation.

“Malcolm Grimm.”

I shouldn’t upset her. I do like Mitali, and she’s a powerful mage. She opposes that asinine self-styled Robin Hood; but she also opposes the, in her words, “oppressive stifling disparity of gatekeeping magical and educational access.” Unfortunately, my politics and The Mage’s align in that way. He might have had her favor if he wasn’t hoarding knowledge and banning books and pushing his reforms through by force rather than democratic political choice.

It used to be that the World of Mage’s was of one mind. We understood each other; the families all knew each other. There was control. Order. There was protection. Now the magical lines have bled; it’s the fault of America, of unnecessary expansion and drifting from the core values. The magical world thinned; it’s grown weak. It’s Rome; lazy and indolent.

Simon Snow was proof of that. The Mage’s Heir. That fool man turned a boy into a weapon and put him in school with our children even though he caused destruction at every turn. I don’t believe the story of his immaculate conception, that he came from Normal families. Prophecies? What are we, peasants before an Oracle? Simon Snow was too convenient, too timely. Davy raved until he conjured the boy out of thin air.

It makes me wonder...

“They’re searching for The Sword of Mages,” I tell Mitali, finally stepping away and gesturing her into my home. “Your daughter shared with me some interesting theories. I’m really quite impressed.”

“My daughter,” Mitali says, following my invitation, “is grieving.”

We pass beneath the oil painting done of Natasha, myself, and our newborn son. Across from it, a newer painting of Daphne and I, and our five children. Mitali and Natasha were friends. Colleagues. She grieved with me, once upon a time. We used to all be a community. We used to be stronger. Now we're at each other's throats. It's a disgrace.

“It’s when we experience great loss that we recognize what matters most.” The Bunce girl wants to see her friend honored. I can respect that.

“Malcolm,” Mitali stands at my side and we look up at Natasha’s face together. “They’re not searching for the Sword of Mages.” I look at her, but she doesn’t look away from Natasha. No, she doesn't look away the chubby olive of a baby that's grown up into a young man I barely recognize. “They’re searching for Simon Snow.”

**Simon**

Penny and Baz are here, with me, eating dinner, with me and a pair of Normals. This is probably the weirdest meal of my life, but the pizza is A plus. I know it's not much, but this feels like the best day of my life.

**Baz**

I’m never leaving England again.

**Penelope**

Well if I thought having dinner with Baz's family was weird, this takes the cake.

**Simon**

Baz is cutting up his pizza with a knife and fork into smaller and smaller pieces. I’m not sure he’s even eating. At least he took off his sunglasses after Mrs. Riley tsked at him. Merlin, Baz. I don't want to look away from him.

**Shepard**

“Soooo.... where are you guys staying?” I ask, cutting through the awkward silence. Mom’s giving me serious side-eye. I'm pretty sure she'll draw the line at three teenagers not from her loins crashing in her house.

“A hotel,” Baz answers immediately, using the opportunity for conversation to stop mutilating his pizza. He looks like he needs to eat ten pizzas. Dude’s a beanpole, and that’s rich coming from me. I at least know I’ve got _some_ time to fill out like my dad. I don’t think vampires _can_ fill out. “We’ll bring Snow with us back to England tomorrow.”

“You - what - huh?” Simon sputters.

Baz sets down his cutlery and turns on him, muffling his immediate flabbergasted expression behind pencil-thin irritation. “Snow, it’s time to come home.”

“What home?” Simon erupts, smacking the table. Mom jumps and I think she’s going to scold Simon but I press a hand over hers. My boy’s got a lot to say. “The Mage left me for dead, Baz. And I don’t have - have,” he catches himself in time to avoid spilling the beans, “I don’t have access to Watford without _endorsement_.”

Baz doesn’t miss a beat. He narrows his eyes and leans into Simon's space. I can totally see now that the two of them have years between them. “You’ll come home with us. One of us. You can’t stay here, Snow, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Simon,” Penelope says, reaching over for him. He pulls his hand away from her and rubs at his face, flicking a glance at me.

“And Shepard?” he asks mulishly.

“What about Shepard,” mom chimes in, her long-held silence broken at last. Oh boy, here we go. “Hmm?”

“Uh,” Simon flounders, going pink. He sinks down in his chair. “Uh.”

“Simon and I were...entertaining a thought,” I say as tactfully as I can.

“A thought about going with him to England?” Mom guesses, unimpressed.

“It - uh - we -,” Simon mumbles, failing.

“So you and the boy without any means - no offense Simon - were entertaining the thought of gallivanting off to England. When were you going to entertain that with me, Shepard?”

“Right now?” I squeak.

“Snow,” Baz is still talking to Simon, dragging his attention back to that side of the table, “you’re coming home. I didn’t fly across the ocean for an afternoon chat and tea.”

“Shepard, it’s time to start explaining yourself,” mom’s saying to me over them. I dart my eyes frantically between her and Simon.

“I don’t have a home,” Simon snarks back at Baz, lurching forward in his seat so he can bring his face close to Baz’s. “And I didn’t ask you to come find me.”

“You can have a home with me,” Baz fires back. “For fuck’s sake, _Simon_ -”

“Hey, language,” mom snaps, but Baz isn’t listening to her.

“-I'm not letting you go again.”

Simon chokes on whatever angry rebuttal he might have had; Mom stops trying to interrogate me and makes an ‘o’ with her lips; Penelope’s frozen with a wand of stuffed-crust half in her mouth. And me? I'm wishing Kylie were here to see this.

Baz inhales with a hiss like he can suck the words back into his mouth. He opens his mouth to back track. “What I mean is-” But he doesn't get very far. There's no far to get. Simon's chasing the words into Baz's mouth and kissing him.


	21. I Kiss Him

**Simon**

I kiss him. It's probably stupid as hell, but he can't just show up and say things like that and have me not kiss him. (He's letting me kiss him.) (He can’t let me go again.) (Have a home with him.) (Baz.)

I've _wanted_ to kiss him. I was going to talk to him about my feelings, about my lightbulb moment, but well….. I’m better at doing than talking. And he’s letting me. That’s the thing that keeps me kissing him. I shouldn’t have done it, but I’m doing it, and he’s letting me.

**Baz**

My first kiss tastes like low moisture mozzarella and red sauce and Simon Snow’s special brand of impulsiveness. It's urgent and fierce and he's holding my face in his hot hands and I can feel our teeth pressed between our lips, the thinness of his skin between me and the veins beneath, and - and then it's all butter soft.

Simon sucks in a breath between us and presses his lips back to mine gently. My second kiss tastes much like the first but now instead of brashly bludgeoning our faces together, Simon’s stroking my cheekbone with his thumb and it's as lovely as it is overwhelming as it is utterly destroying me.

And I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing with my mouth. I should be doing things with my mouth. _He's_ doing things with his mouth. He's moving his chin and letting his lips cradle mine and he's so warm and alive.

Simon Snow is kissing me and neither of us are dying. I could cry.

**Simon**

Baz makes this _noise;_ he _whimpers_ , and his mouth drops open for me, and he's so _good_. I love him like this. In my hands. With me. Safe. I want so badly to be safe, to make him safe. Not to leave him or be left. To hold his face in my hands and know right where he is, no more guessing, no more hoping. Just knowing. I could try. I'll try.

I could kiss him all day. I _will_ kiss him all day.

And then he flicks his cold tongue into my mouth and I can't help it, I burst out into surprised laughter. Baz Pitch just tried to slip me tongue.

He jerks away from me, pouting, sneering, looking generally mortified and -

“No, hey,” I hush, chasing after his lips. I kissed Baz Pitch. I have to kiss him again. And he lets me, holding still for a chaste apologetic press of my mouth to his. “Hey, hush.”

“Merlin, Snow, write me a soliloquy,” he mumbles against me, and he can't sound snobby when he’s trembling like a purse-chihuahua. He’s so cold. I drop my hands to his lap and find his frozen fingers gripping the fabric of his weird fancy shorts, his body strung up in nerves. I cover them with my own. He twitches under my touch before letting me thread our fingers together.

“I don’t know what that is,” I tell him, grinning as I pull back just so I can see his face. He’s doe-eyed and his lip’s have a burst of colour and they’re shining with spit. Or maybe pizza grease. I kiss him just to lick the taste off his lips. He squeaks. Yup. Pizza. This pizza is A plus.

“You’re a moron.” Baz tries to cover his face with his hands, but I won’t let go, so he just smashes his face into the origami of our fingers. His lips purse against the heel of my palm. “Please stab me already and put me out of my misery, Snow.”

“Are you two done?” Mrs. Riley asks in a high and ginger voice. Shit. She doesn’t approve of teenage hanky panky in the house. But I'm not her kid. Oh, but she'll definitely yell at me. I don't have a middle name to say but I think she'd make one up just to say a full name at me. It'll be like _Simon Bartholomew Snow_ or something. No wait. _Simon Salamander Snow._

“I had to kiss him!” I exclaim, washed through with embarrassment and glee in equal force. Belatedly, stomach-cramping anxiety.

I just kissed Baz Pitch.

I look at Penny for help.

**Penelope**

Magic problems, I’m good at. I can handle quests and mysteries and Chosen One problems all day. Simon’s love life on the other hand...

“Don’t look at me for help,” I warn him, waving a pizza crust for good measure, dispelling any bad omens.

Does he know that Baz loves him? Beyond what Baz just blabbed out in front of all of us. Does Simon love him? Is this what the last seven years of obsession have been? I really need to stop being surprised by anything at this point. Simon vanished through magical limbo, popped out in America, found a demon-cursed Normal, and has kissing-feelings for Baz Pitch. None of this falls out of bounds for his life.

I have sudden crushing sympathy for Agatha. Oh, Nicks and Slicks, Agatha! She’s going to have a field day with this one. I am _not_ going to be the one to tell her. Where would I begin? "Agatha, I was right, Simon's alive, and snogging Baz now." Does she ever have to know? Are they even broken up? How does that work? Simon’s dead as far as anyone is concerned. Not my problem. But Simon’s problems _are_ my problems. It’s kind of the dumb deal we made. Simon's love life is not important right now. It's been one day, and Simon's bloody love life is not allowed to be my problem yet. I'm going to wind up shaking him sooner than I thought.

Baz is still hiding in Simon’s hands and not-so-subtly sniffing Simon’s wrists. Simon doesn’t seem concerned until Baz jerks away, covering his mouth again. His chair shoves out with a squeak and he stands up, rigid and visibly distressed.

“Baz!” Simon’s chair falls backwards with the force at which he rises. Baz’s eyes flare wide at Snow before he flees the room, nearly at a run. Simon follows without hesitation. They vanish out of sight; the front door opens and closes with a bang.

Which leaves….

“Sorry. They’re like that,” I say too-loud. Mrs. Riley looks at me, blinks slowly, gives up on addressing the random teenager at her table, then turns on her son.

_“England?!”_

Shepard’s eyes go huge behind his glasses.

“You think you’re just gonna pop across the ocean all chim chim cheree with a bunch of random kids-”

“They’re not _random_ -”

This? This is also not my problem. Even if I do want to see that tattoo of his.

**Baz**

“Baz, wait!”

I’ve run out to the car like I’m going to flee the scene of the crime, but it’s pointless. Stupid American cars with the steering wheel on the wrong side. I hate this country. I can’t believe these people won a war against us.

Snow barrels into me, catching my elbow and spinning me.

“You can’t just grab people,” I hiss, tongue and lips clumsy. I hate my fangs. I hate that I’m lisping. I hate that his blood smells like brown butter and that I want to coat my veins in the fat of him. He’s my worst-dressed teenage fantasy, pressing me against the side of a rental car wearing clobbering trainers and mesh basketball shorts and what is definitely a woman’s Twilight shirt. “Get the fuck off me, Snow.”

“Baz,” he says again, desperate, even as he lets go of me (don’t), holding his hands up and taking a step back (don’t.) I hate it. I asked for it.

He kissed me.

I handed him my stupid soft heart and he ate it. What the hell did I expect, Snow will eat anything. It's a miracle I'm not slathered in butter

“Please don’t run away,” he says.

“Pitches don’t run away,” I sneer, stopping my attempts to open the car door behind me to run away.

He hasn’t stepped any further back. I still can’t breathe. I can smell him. I’m so hungry. I should have fed. I should have fed when Bunce started looking scrumptious. I should have fed when the Normal and his busted lip came into my line of sight. I should have fed when Snow put his lips on mine and let me kiss the green leylines of his wrists.

“Baz, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”

“Do you hear yourself, Snow? You spent years,” my tongue drags on the words, and I’m mortified; my enunciation is worse than Snow’s when he’s trying to cast something longer than a single syllable; “trying to catch me out. Congratulations. You’re alive, and I’m _this_. Status quo restored. You can run back to the Coven and turn me in and be welcomed back to endless praise.”

He kissed me. I’d never kill him. I’d never hurt him. He kissed me. And I have his heartbeat drumming on the back of my tongue.

He pants through his mouth and flares his nostrils and digs his feet into the grass between the sidewalk and the curb. “I was stupid. I spent - it doesn’t - I spent years doing a lot of stupid shit that doesn’t matter.”

I snort. “You’ve finally realized?”

I mean it as a cutting joke, but Snow nods, hands balled up at his side. He’s taking great shuddering breaths through his open mouth and I can see his tongue in the low light of the new darkness. The sun has finally set. This endless day is ending. Crowley, I haven’t slept in almost two days. The exhaustion hits me at once. I’ll buckle right here and let Snow continue to maim me like a junkyard dog.

“I’ve realized. I’ve realized a lot the past - this whole time - I need to,” he rushes out another breath and puts a hand over his face, groaning into it. “I thought about you every day.”

He did mean those words for me. Maim away, Snow. I’ll just be here bleeding out psychologically.

He scrapes his fingers back through his hair and breathes in through his nose finally, eyes fixed overhead at the glow of the night sky. It's so strange, to watch him fret and froth and not feel any magic. I hear the pound of his heart, the heat of his body, but - nothing. “I have so much to tell you. What you said earlier-”

“I said nothing,” I cut him off.

He drops his chin and stares at me, and I know I’m not escaping this. Him. _This_. Whatever _this_ is. Simon Snow has his sights set on me, and that’s it. He’s an unstoppable force, and I cannot pretend any longer that I'm an unmovable object.

“Baz, please,” he begs and I don’t know what he wants from me. I don’t know if I’m ready to accept what he’s trying to give me either. He's begging. “Let me...talk. I - Just let me try. For you, let me try.”

I nod for fear of what will come out of my mouth. He nods back, jaw flexing, preparing himself for a fight or a feast. I’ve seen him eat and I’ve seen him battle and it’s all furious. There’s a growl in his voice when he begins speaking, but it softens, just like his kiss, like he’s desperate to be gentle with me.

“I won’t ever do anything to hurt you again. I don't want to hurt anyone. Especially not you. Not Penny. Not you. You - You’re the closest thing to safe I’ve ever had.” He doesn’t look away as he speaks. “You’re the only thing I let myself think about because there’s no way - I couldn’t stop if I - thinking about you gets me through the fucking day. This whole time, ever since we were little. I didn’t understand but when things were bad I could close my eyes-” the sweet idiot actually closes his eyes, and with it, some of the tension leaves him. He softens on a sigh. “I never let myself think about anything. The good stuff, or the bad stuff. I couldn’t let myself because there’s so much and it swallows me up. But I could always think about you. I held onto thoughts of you all this time like the last fucking candle in the dark. I couldn't deny you if my life depended on it, Baz. You're … Overwhelming. _Transcendent_. And I didn’t understand why until...”

He opens his plain blue eyes, and I’m ruined.

“Until I hunted you down in another country and shoved my wand in your face?”

My fangs have slid back into my gums and I drop my hand and stuff it into my pocket. It’s shaking. I’m shaking. I feel like one of those tiny lab experiment dogs that needs to wear a coat just to take a piss on a brisk day without freezing its bollocks off.

“No,” he mumbles, finally looking away, down at my feet, down to get distracted by my Turkish carpet designer loafers. I give him a minute; I know how bright colors fascinate him. (I should carry a set of keys to jingle in his face. Or a laser pointer. I bet that’d work.) He wrinkles his nose and glances up at me through his curls and his lashes and it’s entirely unfair. “More like…when I lost everything, the only things I wanted back in my life were you and Penny. Even if,” he shrugs, “even if it meant letting you come kill me. I was counting on it, actually. That. _You_. You, coming to kill me so I could see you again. Guess that’s super fucked up of me.”

He shrugs again and looks away and puffs out his cheeks and blows a breath and swings his arms and scrubs his hair and looks at me and looks at my shoes again and then smacks his lips and finally, after too much time has passed, asks, a strain of worry in his voice: “Uhm, Baz? Was that - does that count as a soliloquy?”

Keats and Yeats, what the bloody fuck do I say? No Snow, that’s not a soliloquy you illiterate numpty? So I open my mouth to tell him exactly that, except what comes out sounds suspiciously like I’ve just said: “I’m in love with you, you illiterate numpty.”

Well done Basilton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I tag with slowburn, i put you through 60k of it okay <3 <3 
> 
> baz's shoes: https://artemisdesignco.com/pages/mens-kilim-loafers


	22. Between The Normal

* * *

* * *

**Penelope**

I don’t want to be caught between the Normal and his mom arguing about him coming to England with us. I’m not sure Simon will let us leave him behind; I’ll just...spell her. They can all cry about it later. I get things done around here.

Later though. I need to sleep. Baz needs to sleep (and feed.) I have to go collect Baz and Simon first. Simon. My best friend. Who just chased down a vampire who can’t stop dropping fang around him.

Merlin.

**Baz**

I should just kill us both and be done with it.

**Simon**

He loves me. He's _in_ love with me.

He's properly gay?

**Baz**

But unfortunately, I'm hopelessly gay.

**Simon**

Baz looks horrified for one second (I might have to kiss him; that worked a minute ago) before he moves his jaw side to side and stares down his nose at me. And then, in true Baz Pitch fashion, he flicks his hair over his shoulder (it looks so nice loose like this) and sniffs daintily.

“Stay right here,” he orders, stepping out around me. Is he going to pretend he didn’t say what he just said? I’m going to kick his ass.

“What? B-Baz, wait.” I grab his arm and he pivots on his fancy heel and tips down to kiss my cheek in an ice-cold brush of lips. I shiver down to my toes.

“Snow, I need to stick my fangs into something’s neck right now. Are you volunteering?” He looks down at my shirt and raises an eyebrow at me. I missed that eyebrow. I’m going to kiss that eyebrow. I missed his whole face. It’s so much better to see him and not be left imagining him.

I said _so_ many _things_ to him. Properly gay things.

I shrug. “Maybe later?”

He sneers, but now it just looks hungry and desperate. His mouth looks too full and he stumbles back from me, grace gone, body pulled tight, his browline crinkled. I want to smooth him out. Lay him out beneath me and pull the strings holding him together, undo him, put my fingers in the dark places of him. I want something I can't even articulate.

“I’ll be right here,” I promise, voice rough. “Not leaving you again. So no running off, yeah?”

The tip of a fang peaks out from his mouth and makes a dimple in his bottom lip. I want to kiss that too.

“You'll be the death of me, Simon Snow,” he mutters, turning away and making quick work of disappearing down the sidewalk and taking a blind turn down the next street corner. He looks back just before he’s out of sight. I watch him the whole time, like I have my whole life.

 _Merlin’s beard._ My legs start to give out. I drop onto the hood of the little car and sit in the warm dark, mind racing racing racing.

“Simon?” Penny comes out of the house not a minute later.

I flap a wave at her.

“Oh good, no bloodshed.”

“Hey, Pen...what's a soliloquy?”

She joins me, bunching up on the hood next to me. “It's a theatre term. It's when someone speaks out loud for the audience, but it's meant to be perceived as their internal thoughts, as unacknowledged insight.”

Oooooh. Huh. Nope. That wasn't a soliloquy then. It _definitely_ got acknowledged.

“Is Baz tending to his delicate sensibilities?” She asks.

“Huh?”

“Is he using a salty ocean breeze to restore his humors?”

“We're not near the ocean.”

“The vapors. Did he get the vapors?”

“The whats?”

“Baz!” She holds up her index fingers to her mouth and makes little fangs and hisses.

“Oh. Yeah. I'm waiting for him to come back.”

Baz Pitch is in love with me. He's an idiot. Why the hell would anyone be in love with me?

“Hey, Pen?”

“Hey, Simon?”

I flop back onto the hood of the car and tug on her until she does too. It dents a little under our weight. Whatever. It's a rental. Baz should have rented a cooler car, like a muscle one with a convertible top.

“I love you.”

She smacks her hand around blindly until she finds mine. “I love you too. I'm also never letting you out of my sight again.”

“Even when I go pee?”

“Not even to pee.”

“What about to take a-”

“Simon, don't ruin our moment.”

“You hate moments.”

She pokes at her glasses. “People change. I'm allowing myself one moment per financial quarter.”

I giggle and try to turn onto my side, but it hurts my cut arm beneath me. Bloody hell, I need to shower again and change the bandage. No wonder Baz keeps vamping out. “I like Baz.”

“I couldn't tell,” she drawls. I'm grinning like a loon; she's pretending not to want to smile. “I like him too. Don't tell him I said that."

“I couldn't tell,” I try to mimic her tone of voice but I'm smiling too much to sound dry like her. She purses her lips.

“Don't hurt him.”

“Baz?”

She sits up and looks down over me. “Simon, the World of Mages thinks you're dead.”

“Yeah but not you guys,” I protest. I know this. We went over this. A bit. Penny and Baz focused mostly on the theoretical magic side of their search and glazed over pretty much everything else. Penny says she went to Baz for help on gut instinct, which is not at all like her. I didn’t press. I didn't want to press. I didn't want to think about it.

She's shaking her head at me.

“No Simon. For three days, I thought you were dead. And Baz even longer before I convinced him to give this plan a shot. Having hope isn't the same as knowing. It's been… it's been awful. I can't even explain how empty I felt without you. And Baz…he looked like a dead man walking.”

It shouldn't have been like this. I should have tried harder. If I'd gotten over myself sooner, got my shit together - I could have contacted Agatha's bloody stable. If I hadn't been so convinced that I was supposed to be dead, I could have spared them. I was ready to accept that I was supposed to die in battle; that without magic I had no place in anyone's life. But that’s not true. No one is nothing.

“He told me he's in love with me,” I whisper, chest tightening as anxiety starts kicking through my body. That's big. That feels as big as being the Chosen One. Fuck me. I want to hold him, hold that feeling.

“I'm glad he told you,” she whispers back, completely unsurprised by this information. I guess they're good friends now. I like that. I think they might have been friends all this time if not for me. Now they are because of me; the universe has a way of working things out. Just like, maybe, I guess, me and Baz. Despite the odds, despite everything. He's going to come back and I'm going to kiss him and tomorrow, I'm going to be alive to turn eighteen, with Penny there to see it.

“Where's Shepard?”

“Getting grounded to within an inch of his life.”

I whistle. “His mum'a gonna skin me alive if I kidnap him. But I promised I'd help him.”

“Of course you did, Simon. I'll help you.”

“Yeah? Great. I don't know a Flibbertigibbet from a Shrieker let alone how to unswindle a demon deal.”

“I know. It's okay.” She pats my head like I'm a dog but I don't mind because she scratches her fingers through my curls and it's bliss. “You have many other positive qualities about you that don't hinge upon quantitative knowledge or a basic grasp of magical education.”

“Ah, Pen, you never shower me with compliments. You _have_ changed.”

“I know. It's terrible.” She's quiet for a beat. “You changed too.”

“I'm well fucking aware. I feel like I've been given a second chance at life. I don't want to waste it.”

More like a third chance. When I came into my power and discovered the World of Mages, I thought that was my second chance at life, a chance to be someone. Losing my magic and figuring out, even just a little, that life goes on after the bomb goes off? That’s the third chance, and everyone knows **The Third Time’s A Charm** always brings a blessing. You don't know what if you cast it, but it'll come for you.

“What do you want to do?”

I shrug. “Help Shepard. Snog the daylights out of Baz Pitch as often as he'll let me-”

“Ew, don't tell me that-”

I grin at her. “You know Penny, between that comment and how you talk about Trixie-”

She pinches me. I bat her hand away and resume.

“Confront The Mage for abandoning me.”

She sucks in a breath. “You want to?”

“No. Yes. No. I think so.” I squirm. The idea terrifies me as much as the Humdrum used to terrify me. “I don't know. But. I want answers. And this whole stupid _war_. It's not right, Penny. It's not. It doesn't make any sense. I've had time away and it doesn't make sense.”

“No, it doesn't. It got worse after people thought you died. Without the Humdrum around to keep everyone scared, people started to push back. You were the biggest threat to The Old Families. Until poof.” She snaps her finger for effect.

Part of me doesn’t want to go back to England, but Penny and Baz have families. I can't make them run away with me. I won't ask them. I won't put any of us through that disappointment. I don't know what it means to choose family. But I know what it means not to be chosen.

“Yo, my good party people!” Shepard calls from the front door, flicking on his porch lights. The edge of the warm glow bubbles around us. Penny groans quietly at the sound of him. “What’chya doin’?”

“Vibing,” I tell him.

He climbs up onto the boot of the car and up further onto the roof. I feel the tires sink a little.

“Baz is gonna yell at you.”

“So? He can't hurt me.”

“He can't _kill_ you. He can definitely still _hurt_ you. Trust me.” I’m an expert on being on Baz’s bad side. (He loves me.)

“You promised nothing would ever get me with you around, remember? Anyway, deep bro bond aside, we might have a situation.”

“Is the situation called Michele Riley is going to chain you to a post in the house so you can't run away with me?”

“Simon, my man, you cannot talk about chaining me up inside the house.”

Penny laughs. My bones stop chattering with anxiety so that I can laugh too. I ease a little.

“You could tell her,” I suggest. Penny makes a noise of distress. I shrug. We're protecting a vampire; what's the harm of a nice Normal lady knowing about magic? Besides, this is America. Faroque said they do things differently here.

“No way. No… not until I have to. I won't wait until the eleventh hour, but I'm not gonna sign her up for years of dread. Not after what she's already been through. Not until I let you try to fix it.”

“Good man.”

“Yeah, soooo,” Shepard rocks on the roof. “Penelope Bunce.”

“Shepard Riley,” she says warily, turning around so she can look up at his big smiling face.

“I am giving you permission to spell my mom so that I can run away to England with Simon.”

“Gay marriage was legalized here already, you and Simon don’t have to flee the country.”

“Who’s getting gay married to Snow?” Baz asks, appearing out of the dark without a sound. We all scream. Penny flails at him and threatens to get him a bell. He smirks at us and steps up to press his thigh to my knee. I press back to him. I ease even more. He came back. Of course he did. I wasn't expecting the relief to wash through me at the sight of him, but I should have.

“Me. I called dibs, sorry. I’ll let you cuck me though. It’s a green card kind of deal.”

“You and I,” Baz says, wagging a finger between him and Shepard, “aren’t at the joking stage.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Shepard says meaningfully. “But we’re practically brother-in-laws now.”

“How do you figure?” His eyebrow goes up.

“Simon’s my bro for life. We forged our bond in blood.”

“Shep, my fucking guy,” I wheeze. Shepard grins brilliantly at me, all lit up in the light of his house.

Baz snorts and somehow, against all logic, looks down his nose and from under his brow at Shepard despite Shepard being on the roof of the car and well taller than Baz. I didn't think faces could do that. “What, because you cohabited for a few weeks? I’ve lived with the muppet for years. If anyone’s his brother, it’s me.”

“Gross, Baz,” Penny gags.

“That came out wrong.”

“You came out wrong, Baz."

“I was reportedly a very easy labour."

“Well the doctor dropped you right after. I've heard snotty babies are quite slippery.”

I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe. Baz nudges me.

“No dying after all my hard work finding you. Take a breath, Snow. You’re capable of that, aren’t you?”

I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. I think I’m happy. I think I’m safe. I think that’s what this feeling is. Hysterical. I take gasping breaths to get myself together, each lingering giggle rushing giddy blood to my brain.

“I’ll gay marry you, Baz,” I whisper when I’ve stopped laughing, happiness floating through me, feeling stupidly brave and bravely stupid. Baz already thinks that’s my default setting. He must love that about me. That’s a thought I have to wrap my head around.

“Crowley, Snow, buy me dinner first,” Baz mutters, looking down at me, a smile tucked somewhere in his mouth. He’s gently flushed. We hold each other's gaze until he breaks first. Ha. I win. Suck it, Pitch. “You street urchins better not be denting this rental. I think it’s made out of aluminum foil, and I’m already suspicious that I’m buying four flights back to civilization.”

“Nebraska is a lovely place,” Shepard grumps.

“Does this mean we get to fly first class?” I can’t help my excitement.

“No, Baz is a miser,” Penny says. Baz reaches over my body to flick her in the arm.

“Ungrateful. I’m just going to spell you all to the wings.”

“Do you think that would work?” Penny asks, way too seriously. “If Simon still had his magic, I bet a ‘Stay Put’ could last the whole flight.”

“I’m shit at magic. If I tried, I’d probably spell the whole plane to the runway.”

Baz blinks at me, brow ticking up. I think he’s shocked I’d admit something like that so easily. Joke about not having magic and how shit I was with it. I mean, I still have magic, somewhere, somehow. Probably. Who cares. Give me a sword. I’m great with a sword. I sit up and hook my foot around his leg and wedge him between the space of my knees. He watches me warily even as he lets me move him, the way he used to sometimes at school like he’s waiting for me to start smoking.

“Feel better?” I ask, picking up one of his fine-boned hands and kissing the tips of each finger, finding the callouses from violin practice. I hear his breath catch. I've always liked his hands. It was funny to me that a bloke could have pretty fingers, like Baz had been manufactured in some kind of special rich person store just to be devilishly good looking down to his nail beds. Musician hands. Mage hands. It must be a thing.

Penny groans dramatically at the flirting and turns away to talk to Shepard about the logistics of spellwork. A memory spell or a convincing spell or - I tune it out. I’m a shit mage.

Baz nods, still watching me through narrowed eyes but now with a faint blush on his high cheekbones. He’s really lovely. I always knew that, but now… now I'm allowed to acknowledge it. He found me.

I kiss his palm. “Good. Can I kiss you?”

He opens and closes his mouth and looks away, face growing even darker. Stupidly brave and bravely stupid; I can flirt with Baz Pitch. I can ruffle him. It’s brilliant. “I taste like blood.”

“I probably taste like pizza.”

“There’s no probably about it. You absolutely taste like pizza.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s more normal than tasting like blood, I suppose.”

“Neither of us is normal, Baz.” I move on from kissing his fingertips to kissing the center of his palm and then the back of his hand like he’s a fair maiden in a storybook. It’s the kind of thing that would embarrass me if he did it to me, but he seems to like it going by the shy smile and the way he’s tucking his hair behind his ears with his free hand. I know girls do that when they flirt with the boy they like.

“Please just kiss him, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch; I have listened to Simon talk about you, literally, every single day since I met him,” Shepard jeers from above us. Under her breath, Penny mumbles, “you should try seven years.” Baz snarls at him. I’m definitely fucked up cause I think even Baz snarling and showing off his teeth is pretty.

“What he said,” I tease, tugging on his hand.

He glares at me. “I take it back. I hate you. I am here to kill you.”

“Kiss me first. Then kill me.”

“Snow,” he says, looming over me, a glint in his eye, “you don’t know how many fantasies I have of exactly that.”

“Creep,” I slur into his lips when he finally bends down enough for me to strain up to kiss him. “Me too.”

We match.

Baz does taste like blood, a dark metallic flavor in his mouth, like licking a coin from off the street. He’s barely opening his mouth for me, but I can taste it on his lips. He pulls back way too soon to look at me, face inscrutable. He rubs his thumb over my lips and brings it to his mouth to suck the pad. Heat washes through me.

“I don’t like messes,” he mumbles, suddenly embarrassed. He crams his hands into his pockets and clears his throat. “So, we’re all agreed? Bringing the American with us, breaking a demon curse, smuggling Snow into the country? Brilliant. Well done everyone. Let’s go.”

Penny gives him a flat look. “You embarrass me.”

“Please,” he sneers delicately, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket prissily. “I devastate you. You all worship me.”

“Just Simon,” Shepard says, sliding off the roof of the car. “Wait,” Shepard interrupts himself. “Why do you need to smuggle Simon in? Isn’t he, like, the savior of magic even with all the-?” He fills in the last bit by blowing a raspberry. Sums it up nicely, yeah.

Penny and Baz exchange eye contact. She sits up and crosses her legs, adopting her serious thinking face. It’s a relief; Penny and her thinking face usually know what to do next.

“About that,” she says. “I'm not sure if it's for the best if people found out that Simon is alive."

“Agreed,” Baz says, crossing his arms. “Especially if his magic is in flux. It’d be ideal if The Mage didn’t know he was alive.”

They’re losing me. “Huh?”

Baz glances at me apologetically. “Snow. You’re a political pawn. And people are out for blood. My second cousin’s on trial and about to get his wand snapped for using an unspeakable curse to kill someone.”

Penny nods gravely. “The skirmishes are escalating. The Coven’s a mess, from what mum says.”

“Father’s trying to motion for new leadership. We’re all teetering on the edge of a civil war.”

The happy safe feeling wears off. It was nice while it lasted.

“It’s fine, Simon. Baz and I will hide you.”

I set my jaw. “I need to stop it.”

“Simon, that’s not - _Simon, no.”_ Penny’s voice dips with intent. “Let the grown ups figure it out. Let us keep you safe.”

I am not safe. I won't be until this stops. My friends won't be until this stops.

“Those grown ups are your parents. And it'll be our friends. It'll be Baz on the front line. And I’m still the Mage’s Heir, yeah? I’m still prophesied. That has to count for something. Political pawn and all that. I’ll pawn myself. Or something.” It sounds pathetic to my own ears.

“Brilliant, Snow. I can hear the happy bells of an armistice ringing now.”

“Oi, stuff it, Pitch,” I growl.

Baz raises his eyebrow. I fluster and grab his hand out of its tuck in his arms and kiss it. “Er, sorry.”

“Charming,” he drawls, but he taps his index finger against my lips and lets me kiss it again, eyes locked darkly on mine when I do. I’m whipped. Brilliant. That didn’t take long.

“Boys, focus,” Penny snaps. “Or I’m going to get a spray bottle.”

“What, Bunce, can’t you see I’m collecting my reward?” Baz smirks dangerously at me. “You can publish all the research we did, and I get the shiny trophy to play with.”

(I’m a trophy-boyfriend?) (Are we boyfriends?) (I hope.) (I wish I had a tail to wag.) (That's a weird thought.) (Is this a soliloquy?)

“Play with him later, Basilton. I need your brain.”

I can’t wait for later. But Penny’s right. I give his finger one last kiss and turn to her so I’m less distracted. Baz is very distracting. (He's always been distracting but now I get to enjoy it.)

“Chiming in here,” Shepard says, raising his hand and waving it around like an overeager first-year. “Can’t help but offer the outsider’s perspective-”

“No one asked-,” Penny starts to huff.

“But the prophecy. What was it, something like, ‘The greatest mage will arise to defeat the greatest threat’ or something.”

“Yeah,” I shrug. “Kind of bullshit if my magic made the Humdrum.”

“Sure, sure,” Shepard dismisses, “bullshit if you _assume_ that the Humdrum-thing was the greatest threat to the world of mages. But I don’t know about you guys, but I kind of feel like a war that will cost tons of lives is a bigger threat.”

Penny and Baz exchange looks again. Baz runs his fingers through his hair and looks up at the sky. Penny glares at Shepard like the whole prophecy thing is his fault.

I make a face. “That could… make sense.” Does that make sense? Lots of people think the prophecies are total bollocks to begin with anyway. Now we're just mucking it up even more.

“We need my mum,” Penny says.

“We need my father,” Baz says.

If I had my magic like I used to, it'd be boiling up and out of me right about now. I'd be crashing into myself, like a star popping apart in black of the galaxy. I'd be caving in.

Even black holes aren't nothing.

I make a choice.

“We'll figure it out, yeah? After tomorrow,” I tell them both.

“We should sleep on it,” Penny agrees, hopping off the car and joining Shepard on the sidewalk. “I have to figure out a spell for Mrs. Riley and find a cake.”

I fist pump. She didn't forget. “Penelope Bunce, you are my best friend in the whole world and so brilliant and so perfect." She adjusts her glasses and winks at me, well pleased.

“Cake for what?” Baz asks, lingering in front of me.

“It's his birthday tomorrow.”

“Aw, what, Simon, you didn't say,” Shepard pouts.

Baz glares at Penny. “The hell, Bunce, you couldn't mention that sooner?”

She throws up her hands. “You're obsessed with him. I thought you knew.”

I laugh at the put out look on his face. I think distantly that Baz knew my birthday happened over the summer but we never acknowledged it. We didn't talk about summers. There's a lot we didn't talk about. It was all watching and being watched. That'll change. “It's already about to be the best birthday I've ever had.”

He frowns down at me. “The bar could not be any lower, Snow. We’re in Nebraska.”

“Alright alright, enough dissing my state. I vote you guys stay all day tomorrow and then we do the whole ~magical political asylum~ thingy.” Shepard wiggles his fingers around the words “political asylum.” I pointedly do not ask “isn't an asylum the loony toons bin” because I have the distinct feeling that it is not the same thing but I don't want anyone to know that I don't know what it is. See? I'm smarter than people think. I know when I don't know stuff. The fool who knows he's a fool is wiser than the man who thinks him wise, and all that stuff. That's the kind of stuff The Mage would say to me. _Don't let them know what you know, Simon._ _Let them only guess what you're capable of. Always keep your other hand out of the fight until you need it. Draw a line so you know when to cross it._

“I'm certainly not going to subject the birthday boy to a trans Atlantic flight,” Baz says. He's still pouting.

“If anyone deserves cake and candles, it's Simon,” Penny agrees. “Surprise, you're not dead! I didn't think we'd see the day.”

“You and me both, Pen.”

“That's morbid.” Shepard shakes his head. “Why do all of us have a foot in the grave already? No offense, Baz.”

Baz flips him the bird. I sputter on a laugh. Baz quirks his brow at me and smiles. I keep smiling at him until he bites his lip and looks away, clearing his throat again. Another win for me. Wish I'd known I could win all those staring contests back in the day if we were snogging.

(Maybe the safe feeling can exist next to the unsafe feeling.)

“Bunce, your mother is going to kill us both when we get back, you realize that, yes?”

“Oh absolutely. Calculated risk.” She waves it away and makes a single jazz hand in my direction. “Simon will make puppy eyes at her and it'll be okay. We found Simon!”

“Disney dog,” Shepard whispers to me.

Baz purses his lips. “And my father is going to be very impressed with me. Maybe if I put a bow on Snow’s head…”

I guess if I'm going to hide away with one of them, their parents should know. Malcolm Grimm scares me. Crowley. I have the feeling Baz liking me won't make much of a difference to him. Especially because I was the Humdrum and I'm why - Baz - his -

“Tomorrow,” I interrupt, shutting down my own thoughts. “Blimey! We'll figure it out tomorrow.”

“Blimey!” Shepard cackles. “Did you just say _blimey_? What the bell is ‘blimey’ Simon?”

Penny groans. “Americans.”

“Blimey,” Shepard repeats, giggling. “Okay fellow youths, everyone come be polite to my mom some more. Someone say 'blimey' to her, she'll lose it.”

“I _am_ sorry for spelling her,” Penny apologizes, following Shepard into the house. “Although now that you're asking me to do it again…-”

Baz and I fall in step behind them. I slide my hand into his and he grips me tight.

“Baz?”

He hums and glances at me.

“Can I, uhm - can we - can I sleep with you at the hotel?” He stumbles a little. I tighten my hand. “M’not being weird. I just want to hold you,” I mumble, pressing into his side, too nervous to look at him. I want to smell his fancy products. “That's all.”

I don't know if I can survive the night with him and Penny out of sight. I'd be too scared to close my eyes and have them vanish.

He drags us to a dead stop before we step into the Riley’s house and holds up our linked hands to inspect beneath the wash of the porchlight.

“That's all,” he murmurs thoughtfully, turning our hands over. “That's all, is it? Everything we've been through, and now - happy boyfriends who kiss and cuddle and plot against opposing political factions?”

“Uhm. Yes, I think.?The boyfriends bit at least for sure. But I might be terrible at it.”

He presses the back of my hand to cool lips to hide a laugh. “Might you?”

God, I'm thick. I used up all my words. I'm not good with words. I just want to hold him. “I’d try, Baz. To be good to you. The best I can be. If you wanted.”

His shoulders hitch a little and he shakes his head for one terrifying second before kissing the back of my hand, eyes shut. It's not as embarrassing as I thought it'd be. No one’s ever kissed me there before, not anywhere that isn't my mouth. It doesn't feel good necessarily, but it feels special, like the kiss goes all the way through to me.

“I want that.”

“Okay….” I squint at him “You just want to plot, don't you?”

He rolls his eyes but his words come out more shy than I thought Baz Pitch capable of being. “I want to be happy boyfriends with you. I want to be...I want us to be happy."

My heart pounds at that. Has been pounding but now it's worse. I can barely talk around it. “Oh. Yeah? Yeah! Brilliant. That's - that's -,” I take a breath so big my lungs whine in my chest and blow it out so hard that the hair around his face flutters. _“Baz.”_

He blinks at me and raises a weary eyebrow. He looks weary all through his face. He and Pen must be completely knackered. “Dare I ask what now?”

“It's, just, me. It's not easy. With me. A lot of stupid stuff happens and I can't just stop being what I am, so it's a bit shit, to be honest but-”

He presses the fingers of his free hand to my lips and jostles our linked hands in the air for emphasis.

“I told you, I'm not letting you go again, Simon. I'm choosing this with eyes wide open, shit and all.”

“Yeah?”

“Crowley,” he curses, and kisses me hard. It shuts me up better than his pansy punches ever did. “Just let me love you, you nightmare.”

“Oh…yeah. I want that.”

Baz sighs and rests his forehead against mine. “Hold me tonight, Snow. I don't want to wake up without you.”

“I will. You won't.” When I shift, our noses bump, and our lips touch. We don't kiss, letting the tingle of contact shiver with our breaths. His cool to my warm. We have tonight. We'll have tomorrow. We'll have the day after that and after that and the next and so on. I told myself I'd face the dark things in the world; I will; I'll survive it because that's what I do. I won't be alone. That's a promise I make to myself, that I never dared to make before. I'll wish on it tomorrow, over candles, and blow them out like a shooting star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all thank you for enjoying this with me <3 i had so much fun writing it. Did it all in about 20 days! that was a lot lol.
> 
> Please Read when it's convenient <3
> 
> If you're saying to yourself "Mad, wtf, theres so much unfinished to this. what about shepard? What about the mage? what about agatha? what about malcolm and mitali? What about the boys new relationship?" well.....I HOPE that this fic can satisfy on its own but if not...
> 
> There will be a sequel   
> 
> 
> A Light Within
> 
> In the meantime, I am currently working on a more explicit, mature, unhinged Bakery au...a dramatic raunchy comedy. so if that's your bag, subscribe so you dont miss it.


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